Tomnabat

This the 4th round of the SHR Championship series was part of the Tomintoul Highland Games. Pleas for car sharing paid off as I was joined by 3 Carnethy friends for the long journey north, choosing the longer but more reliable A9 route. 3 and a bit hours later we reached the village, where parking was at a premium. On approach to the site entrance, a colourful character who looked like an 18th century itinerant was placed strategically, busking badly with an amplified violin. It was going to be a good day, clear and quite chilly-well Tomintoul is a very elevated village.

The £5 entry fee allows you to participate in any of the events, but we were content to enjoy the unique spectacle of a Highland Games whilst waiting for our event. Pipers piped, lassies danced and twirled, muscular young men threw heavy objects  and tossed telegraph poles like matcksticks, other fleet footed men ran round the uneven grass field in the races, all appreciated by tweedy old men in their plus fours and deerstalker hats, hip flasks at hand, and the entire village. A pair of police walked about with nothing to do, no doubt thankful that they were here, and not in Rothbury, yes all is well in Highland Scotland traditions, a million miles away from the insane real world!

At last our turn came and the competitors gathered in front of the podium for the briefing. The intimacy of the crowd becomes obvious, as instead of being entertained, you are the entertainment! Few had done the race before, but rumours of very rough heathery ground was mooted. Yes indeed. After the once round the field, it was back along the road into the village, up a forestry track, then suddenly on to the Tom na Bat slopes. Heathery and rough it certainly was, and with no idea of line, it was potluck how you got going. My arch nemesis Tom Scott was there, and I could see him starting to pull away from me as I frantically tried to make progress up a drainage ditch. It was really energy sapping, but Tom was not far ahead, and eventually I got a chance to outflank him in the deep heather. Then it was 100% effort until the legs screamed and stomach churned to the summit. Crossing a wire fence lead to a brilliant descent through the deep heather where adopting a bounding movement helps (I knew these skipping sessions in the winter warm up would come in handy). There was a final slither down a steep bank onto a track, up that and back on to the hill. Tom was 10 metres behind, and I knew I had to gain some on the reascent, so I dug in with all the reserve I had, determined not to walk, pulling back one or two. At last the slope summit was reached allowing for  a wonderful flat out and easy angled descent to the road. One of my Carnethy friends Gordon had pipped me on the descent, but we pushed each other along swapping leads back to the games field. I could see an ominous Fife vest, still 10 metres behind, and convinced it was Tom I made one last supreme effort, making what passes for a sprint for me these  days, pushing past Gordon. He, having none of that nonsense responded well and beat me by 1 second, and I the Fifer by 3...... who turned out not to be Tom, he was some distance back and I had him beat!

This being a Highland Games, prizes are in cash in brown envelopes, with Dan Whitehead winning the men's race. I ended up with a £23 envelope, which probably nearly covered the fuel costs for getting there, but vital points too. We returned over the Lecht, enjoying the vast sprawling views of the empty heathery hills of whisky country, via Braemar to Blairgowrie, where my companions were able to enjoy a pint of real ale in my favourite pub there, chips and home.

The final twist of this indulgent odyssey was the Fife vest turned out to be an unbeknown category rival, perhaps with a recent birthday, who knows. I'm thinking of making it illegal for hill runners to grow older and have significant birthdays without prior announcement to the SHR!!