Ben Nevis Ultra
In 25 minutes my race is starting and I’m still undecided. “It doesn’t feel very cold, does it?”, I ask my sister who has come all the way from Germany to support me on this day. We just watched the start of the Glen Coe Skyline, another race that is harder than the one I am participating in. 95% of the runners at the starting line wore shorts. I look down to my long running tights. “I’m changing”, I tell her and walk to a few benches.
The weather is indeed quite nice for the Scottish Highlands in September. In the Glens, the valleys, high temperatures for the day are predicted to be around 11 degrees centigrade. On the Bens, the summits, it’s a different story though. It’ll be a thousand meters higher up and wind chill can be considerable. Still, I decide to change into shorts. Long rain pants are part of the mandatory kit each runner needs to carry and I’m planning to use those in case it gets too cold later on.
At 7:45 we watch the first wave of Ben Nevis Ultra runners start the challenge in Kinlochleven. They are being sent off to the tunes of a bagpipe and cheers from supporters around. 15 minutes to go for me as a starter in the second wave. I say goodbye to my sister, give my girlfriend a quick WhatsApp call, top up my flasks with drinking water and make my way through the kit check into the starting area.
The race director tells us that the people who flagged the route reported that the CMD Arete, a 5k ridge and the “crux” of this race, is particularly slippery and wishes us good luck. We also get bagpipe tunes, a count-down and at 8:00 I start the 52km loop together with only about another 50 runners or so. We jog through the streets of Kinlochleven and I feel relief. The past few days I’ve been thinking a lot of about the race: what to take, what to wear, how the weather might be, which obstacles I might encounter. Now deliberation is finally over and all that remains is execution. The plan is to enjoy it all as much as possible and simply not stop until I’m back in Kinlochleven.
Almost immediately we start with a steep ascent through a forest. I’m in the back of the field, perhaps 10 runners are behind me. It’s going to be a long day and it should really be an easy effort for the first few hours so I’m holding back and try not to get pulled too much by the excitement of the race. As we climb higher, the forest clears and we enter the more “classic” Scottish Highlands. It quickly starts to feel very remote as there are no signs of civilization, just endless peaks and valleys around us. The ground gets increasingly muddy and I try hard to avoid getting wet feet. It will happen eventually, but I’m thinking that there’s no need to give up on some comfort prematurely. Some other people around me seem to take a different approach, as if they might actually enjoy splashing through the big puddles.
We pass the first checkpoint up on some plateau where a race marshal is camping out and cheering us all on. In total there are 12 checkpoints, many of them in remote places, and each time the smile and encouragement of the marshals provides a little boost of energy.
I feel good and very present. My watch started to report obviously wrong data after only a few kilometers so I’m no longer trusting it. This means I cannot use the distance on the watch to break down the race or think about my splits. It actually turns out to be blessing as I simply go with my rhythm, take in the beautiful landscape and sink into the race.
I pretty much decided to sign up for the Ben Nevis Ultra race after watching a promo video for it on YouTube. It was shot on a beautiful day, the views from the top of Ben Nevis looked amazing, the scrambling along the ridge looked like fun and all that together with the epic background music just put a big smile on my face whenever I watched it. The stats also seemed reasonable: 52k with 4000m of elevation gain. I had done a 50k race with 3000m in Switzerland last year, so this seemed like a good next challenge.
I signed up for the race in February, only 10 days after registration opened. A few weeks later I looked through the website again and noticed that some sections did sound pretty scary: “The nature of the challenge is serious and there is a risk of serious injury or death whilst participating in this event… The entire route is subject to rapidly changing, highly variable and extremely severe weather. For this reason, competitors must be capable of a ‘robust completion’ of the route in all but the most serious weather conditions.” I decided that this was probably meant to deter runners who didn’t have access to the Swiss Alps for training, but it’s always hard to be sure.
The next indication that this race might be tougher than I first thought were the two videos by Stephen from FilmMyRun. He is an experienced ultra-runner, attempted the race twice, and didn’t finish because of the pretty tight cutoffs. As a reference, the course record is 7:40 hours and the cutoff was 12 hours. To enforce this, there are additional cutoffs at a few checkpoints along the course. (At the Swiss Alps 100 50k, the winner this year finished in under 6 hours and the cutoff was 15 hours.) So time matters; even if my goal was to “just finish” I’d have to be somewhat fast to do that. This year, the cutoff was actually relaxed to 12:30 hours, but I only learned about this the week before the race.
I then also realized that there was only a single aid station along the way (again, as a comparison, the Swiss Alps 100 50k has 5 aid stations) which meant that I’d need to carry a lot of food and water myself. Originally I thought I’d need to take at least 3 liters at the start, before I learned that you could simply drink from the various streams that you cross. Similarly, even a week before the race I was still not sure what to really expect of the route. There were messages about freezing temperatures on the summits and people talking about “somewhat technical ridges and sections” — whatever that means. Komoot, an app to plan outdoor adventures, told me that the CMD Arete was a T6 route, the toughest level on the Swiss Alpen-Club scale, which really scared me for a moment until I watched another video describing it which calmed me down again.
By the time I got to the race, I wasn’t sure what exactly the biggest challenge would be. But given the good weather, the optimism from most runners around me and the fact that I was healthy and injury free I was looking forward to finding out.
About two hours into the race I reach the first real river crossing and I know that the time of dry feet was over. The river is about 3 meters wide and ankle deep and I stepped into it without a second of hesitation. Maybe also because there was another checkpoint there with two marshals just smiling at me as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
The route then continues through some incredibly boggy terrain where I probably would have gotten wet feet regardless. It’s hard to imagine how muddy things can get, when you haven’t been to Scotland. A few times I sink ankle-deep into a puddle and am almost scared that my shoe will come off as I pull out my feet.
At this point in the race, there are a few other runners in sight, but not many and I’m mostly by myself, amazed by the scenery and the muddiness. Eventually I reach the next checkpoint that comes with another river crossing (this time there are boulders to climb over, though) and then the ascent towards the first peak, the Càrn Mòr Dearg, starts.
The pace becomes radically slower and the field of contestants moves closer together. I am three hours into the race, still feeling really good and pass a lot of people while getting higher and higher across grassy meadows. It’s already really steep and I’m glad I’ve had the Swiss Alps to train over the summer.
After another hour we reach what looks like a vertical wall, if it weren’t for the runners ahead that somehow make progress on the way up, into the clouds. The wind picks up strongly and everybody is putting on jackets before starting the final ascent.
It’s not far, but it’s now really, really steep and rocky. I put my poles away because they start to become more of a liability than an asset. Then I’m on top. It’s hard to tell because visibility is at around 10m, but the course makes another turn and plateaus and I know that I’m at the start of the CMD Arete. If I could see it, the view would be amazing: A curved mountain ridge that connects Càrn Mòr Dearg with Ben Nevis.
But we are in the clouds and with the wind it’s really quite cold. I decide to sit down briefly and put on my rain pants. Then I start the traversal. It’s awesome. I’m still feeling strong, it’s a lot of fun to climb across boulders using my hands and legs, I pass a few more people and am utterly enjoying myself. Perhaps it’s not even such a bad thing that I don’t have a view because it allows me to focus entirely on my movement.
I prepared for this race the entire year, but I really focused on it in the last 6 or 7 weeks with three consecutive big weekends.
I had a dream trail running weekend in Zermatt. Exploring the Glacier Trail and the Hörnlihut from where the ascents to the Matterhorn start by myself on Saturday and then doing the 19k race of the Matterhorn Ultraks together with about 1000 other people under a pristine blue sky on Sunday. Racing a few folks around me on what felt like ridiculously fast downhill segments.
Just 6 days after that race, I went out on my own for a 37k dress rehearsal training run. The weather was appropriate for a dress rehearsal with lots of clouds and fog. And I had picked a difficult route. On this run I learned the hard way that the rating of a trail doesn’t necessarily capture its actual difficulty. I had done a T4 ridge two weeks before and it had been pretty straightforward. This one was different. It was 7.5k of constant up and down, scrambling, literal climbing for a couple of meters and a few short, exposed ridges that were a little outside my comfort zone. But what can you do when you are in the middle of the ridge? Going back isn’t necessarily easier. And when I was done with that, I still had 15k and 800m of elevation gain left to go. And it got tough. After I finished in 8 hours I was beat. I couldn’t even drink properly, let alone eat. It got me worried a little bit, because Ben Nevis was going to be the same and then some more…
And one week later I travelled to Graubünden to spend a few days at higher elevation. The last trick I had up my sleeve to (legally) get some extra red blood cells for the race. One night I spent in a mountain hotel at 3000m overlooking a glacier. When I woke up in the morning, the clouds that had been all around the day before were gone and the view was amazing. And still, I was exhausted mentally and physically. I just wanted to go home. I knew that training was done. I had done all I could and I had done it well and now there wasn’t much to do but rest for two weeks and then give it everything.
It’s another steep, slippery climb up to Ben Nevis. I’m a little worried that the runners ahead of me will kick loose some rocks. But then I’m on top. It’s pretty underwhelming. I can’t see anything and suddenly there are loads of people who came up the easy way that we are now heading down. But it’s one major challenge done.
I’m jogging down, passing and dodging tourists. Most of them are smiling at us and cheering us on, but some are probably also a little annoyed to have to step aside again and again to let all these insane people pass. Eventually we leave the clouds and the views of the highlands open up again. I’m getting too warm and spend what feels like a ridiculous amount of time pulling my rain pants over my running shoes. A few kilometers later I notice some chafing at the bottom of my foot. I wonder if I should ignore it, but realize that I shouldn’t. If that becomes a blister it would be bad. I sit down, take off my shoes and realize that it’s the inlay sole that has wrinkles in it. I try to smoothen it out again, but it doesn’t work, so I decide to just take them out. It’s a little less comfortable, but the chafing is gone.
Down and down and down we run. It’s 7 kilometers from the top of Ben Nevis to the aid station in the valley. I’m starting to feel the exhaustion now, but the thought of getting some real food and reaching that milestone is helping.
After around 6.5 hours I reach the aid station. 30 minutes before cut-off. Enough to not be worried, but close enough to understand that these cut-offs are tight. I grab water and a couple of vegan sausage rolls and sit down for a second. The atmosphere is nice, although it’s already getting hard to process things properly. One runner is getting sent off by some friends and as he’s starting he turns around and says: “Wait, I think I forgot something… my game face!”, puts on a huge smile and runs off. Another is sitting on a chair, probably crying and talking to the crew. He won’t continue. I eat more sausage rolls and a few pieces of apple, fill my bottles and trot on.
It’s sinking in now. That station was the place to stop if I weren’t going to make it. And here I am continuing. The course is pretty flat and it’s a wide path. Pretty boring. I approach another runner and we start talking. She’s doing the race the second time after she was cut off in the previous year. She’s still nervous that she’s not going to make it.
Eventually I leave her to continue ever so slightly faster. But after a while I realize that I feel actually quite tired and that running is hard so I switch to walking. I consciously remember that my goal is to finish and that time is a secondary concern if at all. I leave all my pride behind and just walk on this flat stretch that really was runnable. Later I realize that my unconsciousness might have also remembered how I felt after the dress rehearsal and that it would have been foolish to push on hard when there are still hours to go.
Walking really helps. I recover, I feel better again and then I reach a marshal who tells me: “This is your last cut off point; you will finish this race.” It’s still 17km to go, including 3 more peaks, but having an outsider tell me “you will finish” feels great.
A little later, I’m walking the Steall Falls Path which runs next to a large river through quite beautiful forests on flat terrain. I’m eating potato chips which always taste extra delicious after hours of exercise, there are a few other runners around and I am feeling good. I am present and just continuing. There doesn’t seem to be any need for thinking about how the next kilometer will go, how much further it actually is or anything else. Just simple forward motion.
One more river crossing, a little deeper and wider than the first one and then we’re starting on the last major challenge of the day. It’s a steep and long climb again and everyone is going slow but also steady at their own pace. Eventually I settle in together with one other runner who seems to have the same rhythm as me. We chat a little and he tells me that the highest hill he has around his home is less than 100m high and that he prepared for the race by using the stepper in his gym. I can’t quite understand how much confidence you must have to sign up under such circumstances, but here we were, in exactly the same spot, pushing forward one step at a time.
The sun starts to get lower, there’s another rainbow and some truly spectacular views. It’s hard to make sense of it all. It’s really getting exhausting now, it’s getting colder again and we are moving into the clouds. And then we reach the first of the three final peaks. A marshal welcomes us and I’m amazed that she’s staying on top of that mountain all day to make sure we are all safe and accounted for.
A brief downhill and another climb and we’re on the second peak. The marshal there greets us and tells us “one more”. We look and there is what looks like a giant ascent up ahead. But not before we go down first. I need another portion of potato chips. Perhaps it’s good that there is no easy way out at this point. My mind doesn’t stray very far from just making sure that I keep going. What else is there to do anyway?
The last ascent didn’t just look steep. It’s a beast; but it’s not long and I know that. I know that I just have to take one step at a time for another 15 or 20 minutes and I’ll be at the top. And so it is. I high-five stepper-guy when we reach the summit, but move on quickly because it’s cold. “It’s all downhill from here” declares the marshal and I stagger on.
As I leave the clouds, the setting sun is painting the highlands and the lake, excuse me, loch next to Kinlochleven in amazing evening colors. It’s an incredible reward for the day that’s behind me. I’m trying to take it all in and then bring out my phone for the first time in the race to capture a photo.
The final descent down to Kinlochleven includes another river crossing and boggy paths that have been ruined by hundreds of runners who have passed through already on this weekend. The last couple of kilometers are going through a forest again and it’s getting darker and darker. I’m wondering if I’ll need my headlamp, but then the forest clears and I’m in Kinlochleven. I check my watch. It’s 19:55. Time doesn’t matter, but it would still be nice to finish before 20:00.
I’m running through empty streets, already illuminated by street lamps. I still don’t recognize anything and it is 19:58. But then there’s some sound and then there’s a bridge that I think I remember. And then there’s an organizer telling me “at 8 there’s a minute of silence for Her Majesty, so if nobody cheers, that’s why” and I see my sister greeting me right before I turn and enter the event venue. I see the finish line with it’s big, red clock, the crowd is still allowed to cheer and then… I’m done.
It had definitely been a day for shorts.
