As I walk along these shores
I am the history within
As I climb the mountainside
Breaking Eden again
[Runrig – Proterra]
The Chasm of An t-Sròn, 22 September, 2:48 pm. I've been able to see the bottom of the glen with Loch Achtriochtan and the road with aid station for a longer while. It seems so close but there is still a looming question if I can make it. Both my thighs are beginning to get cramps. With the previous elevation gain, half an hour of continuous descent at such speed down an impossibly steep slope was bound to take its toll.
Having run down the scree, rocks, wet grass and burn, I get the best for last. Wet rocks slanting downwards. You'd need spider legs to stay upright. – Careful, it's slippy – shouts the marshall, at once reealising the obviousness of his warning – and there are steep drops down there! – Can I make the cut-off? – I throw a question. – You'll miss it by three minutes – he answers with a convinced voice – 'cos it takes fifteen to get down from here...
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Kamil Weinberg's report
* * * * *
What am I doing here?
Kinlochleven, 22 September, 7:00 am. Having listened to a traditional bagpipe tune, together with the race director Shane Ohly we count down from five and start off the toughest of the Salomon Skyline Scotland races. Every runner has a GPS tracker attached. "Push the 4740 dot"– I wrote to my friends at our team's fanpage a few days ago.
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What am I up against? This race used to be included in the Skyrunner Extreme Series, together with Trofeo Kima and Hamperokken Skyrace, and beside them considered one of the most technically demanding in Europe. Its organiser, who's finished all three, claims his own one is the toughest. The prospective participants are meticulously vettted. In order to get here I had to show my climbing CV. I'm not afraid of the rock difficulties but rather of the 14-hour cut-off at the 52k course with monstruous 4750 vertical metres across off-trail, wild territory. Having calculated my times from other extreme races however, I decided I could just squeeze in within some margin...
The first bit leads up a gravel road, just to spread the field out before the rock difficulties. After the absolutely non-Scottish warm'n'sunny Friday and Saturday, today the weatherman says cooldown and showers. The day wakes up bright however, and soon the sun rises above the mountains. Interchangeably I walk and run from the sea level up to 540 metres somewhere in the second half of the field.
Down the steep and rocky Devil's Staircase I gain a few places and tick off at the first checkpoint at 10 km in an hour and a dozen minutes or so, as planned. No grub or drinks here – this race is spartan by nature and the only aid station awaits us at kilometer 33.
Grade II or Number 2?
Gettting our shoes wet in the first bog we run and then walk up towards the mountain visible ahead called Stob Dearg (1022 m). We are supposed to scramble it via Curved Ridge of Moderate grade, which is as far as I know climbing grade II. And I don't mean number 2 which some may have in their pants at the very sight of it, but the rock difficulty by the UIAA grading system.
A little queue forms below the difficult place but it's quickly moving. It's an opportunity to rest a wee bit and take a few pics. Helmet-clad members of the safety crew are belayed to the rocks. They ask us not to overtake at the dangerous scrambling sections. There are no artificial aids for the racers.
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After the night rain the rock is wet in places. There are a few almost vertical bits, but all have juggy holds. For me it's the best fun. Talking to fellow runners I learn they have climbing experience too. It confirms that the British Moderate grade, i.e. scrambling Grade 3, equals Grade II UIAA. For me it's similar in character and difficulty to the final section of Martin's route at Gerlach, the Tatras' highest peak in Slovakia.
Not my day
At the summit the wind blows the clouds away, showing us great views. Following a short runnable ridge we steeply descend a path to the valley below 400 metres a.s.l. All the way there are opportunities to fill up our flasks in burns. And then another climb up a lower but very steep col, where I go through the first bad patch. I'm overtaken by the whole bunch I escaped from at the last downhill.
I make up for it at the descent that follows, reaching the checkpoint at 4h15, i.e. 15 minutes ahead of my plan. The cut-off here is 6 hours, but having sussed out the route I know the next cut-off of 8 hours will be the key one. Here you need a significant time cushion to make the next one. It starts raining when I run up a path along the burn so I put my jacket on.
Two miles further the red flags turn right into the bog. Doesn't matter, my shoes are already wet from the rain. Then the route leads straight up the slope across very steep grass and rocks. Sometimes we have to scramble on all fours. Again I hit the wall. It's definitely not my day. I stop for a while to have a chocolate bar.
Above the col a local runner catches up with me and we talk for a while. He speaks with a very thick brogue but having worked in the UK for several years I learned to understand all dialects. He says he's bonked too. If he suffers so badly while overtaking me so easily, then what can I say?
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The big climb leads to the unpronounceable summit of Stob Coire Sgreamchach (1072 m) and further along the ridge to the highest point of the whole race, Bidean nam Bian (1150 m). To make our life harder, the route takes a dogleg to the neighbouring peak of almost the same height and back. Again it's very technical on rocks and talus. I gain on all downhills but still feel bloody slow on the climbs. The only good point is that it stopped raining.
My legs are alright, I'm just short of breath. Although I've trained pretty hard in the Tatras in summer, I'm far from my last year's shape. The two previous days of hectic work as a journalist covering the earlier races didn't probably help either. Back from the dogleg to the highest peak I have about 50 minutes left till the 8h cut-off at the bottom. And before the downhill proper there is one more bump ahead.
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Someplace, 2 February. Kilian Jornet and Emelie Forsberg have won the race and stand on the highest step of the podium. I approach them and we make an appointment for an interview in Scotland in September.
A moment later I wake up from a dream. Yesterday I received a confirmation I'm accepted for Glen Coe Skyline.
* * * * *
PhD in downhills
Jak się masz, ledwo dyszysz, bierz się w garść, na co liczysz?
Psia mać, wiem, że stać cię na lepsze wyniki!
Poprawiasz statystyki ziom i wyrzucasz z siebie gniew
Przestajesz robić za tło, obudził się w tobie lew
Jakoś idzie trzymać pion, znaleźć ten zwierzęcy zew
Ostatni głęboki wdech, do góry łeb!
[Sobota – Do góry łeb]
The Chasm of An t-Sròn, 22 September, 2:20 pm. Kilian and Emelie are absent this year. It doesn't change the fact that right now with my back against the wall I've got to do the Kilian myself. I have less than 40 minutes to get a thousand vertical metres down a mega technical slope over two miles. Time to slay some dragons!
Following an easier beginning, the route falls down some extremely steep scree. Sliding in a controlled way I quickly catch up with a few fellow runners. Below there is wet grass, equally steep. I feel happy to have chosen the shoes with lugs for mud rather than rocks, although the latter are aplenty as well, especially at the burn crossings. I don't waste time to find stepping stones and run across shin-deep water.
I stop counting the ones I've overtaken, wondering how many of them, including me, will make the cut-off. I've been able to see the bottom of the glen with Loch Achtriochtan and the road with aid station for a longer while. It seems so close but there is still a looming question if I can make it. Seeing me, one racer steps aside on slippy rocks. – Cheers mate, thanks a lot, okurwajapierdolę! – English courtesy swiftly turns into my native swearing just as I narrowly escape a nasty fall. For a long time I've been pushing it way too far, this is pure madness...
I get the best for last. Wet rocks slanting downwards. No shoes would ever hold here. Wherever I can I run down the grassy sides of the path but it's seldom possible. Both my thighs are beginning to get cramps. With the previous elevation gain, half an hour of continuous descent at such speed down an impossibly steep slope was bound to take its toll. – Careful, it's slippy – shouts the marshall, at once realising the obviousness of his warning – and there are steep drops down there! – Can I make the cut-off? – I throw a question. – You'll miss it by three minutes – he answers with a convinced voice – 'cos it takes fifteen to get down from here...
When I meet the bloke down there a while later before heading for the next climb, he's gonna be a wee bit surprised when I tell him it took me eight minutes. He certainly didn't know that downhill is my middle name.
The rocky drops are minging indeed, with water flowing over them. I slide down partly on my bum and partly on all fours. I burst into the checkpoint four minutes before the cut-off only to learn that it counts on departure and not arrival. Cup of water down my throat, flask filled up, mouthful and fistful of grub and get the f*** out the gate before they close it! Do I always have to live on the edge?
I cross the road, sit on a stone and have a ten-minute feast. This crazy downhill completely drained me. The Scottish runner I met before comes over and offers me a packet of crisps he got from his family. This is the only place in the race where outside support is legal. He reached the checkpoint a while before me but decides to drop out, although I try to change his mind. He looks even more knackered than me.
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Some people are born with downhill running skills and I must be one of them. Just like unforgettable Paco the dog who once fell into water and learnt he could swim. Its not the first time this skill saved my arse in a race. Had I held an MSc in downhills before, now I would surely earn a PhD!
Skyline or Skyfall?
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles
We will stand tall
Face it all together
At skyfall
[Adele – Skyfall]
I wouldn't be myself if I hadn't sussed out the whole route before, on the map at least. From here on at 33 km begins the worst climb. 900 vertical metres over 1.8 km. Yes, 50 per cent average over such a long distance. How steep can it be at the steepest places? From the bottom of the glen I set off as probably the last one of those who made the cut-off.
Path, no path, wet grass, rocks, tufts of grass to cling on to, it's more or less all like that. Trekking poles would come in handy but I deemed them "less necessary" when limiting the weight of my plane luggage. The speed seems miserable and I feel weak as a baby. Once in a while I need to stop for a rest. I've already said this is not my best day. The altimeter however still shows I yomp almost 600 vertical metres per hour, which ain't that bad. Above me, still in the same distance, I see two other racers. I know when I hit the ridge I will be more or less sorted.
The ridge is Aonach Eagach. Easier climbed than pronounced. Last year it was out due to gale force wind. The second hardest section of the race, grade 2 scrambling, i.e. UIAA grade I. At the summit of Sgorr Nam Fiannaidh (967 m) I catch up with those two, say hi to them and the marshalls and run ahead.
The whole ridge is about 5 km long but some of its parts are runnable. The pinnacles offer some fine scrambling. Members of the safety crew take care of the most difficult places. This would be great craic if I wasn't so ultimately knackered. I romp through scrambling sections and technical descents but on every single uphill I gasp for breath. I downclimb one pinnacle via an overhang which can be Diff grade in climbing terms, lowering myself on juggy holds but without seeing any footholds. Scrambling the next pinnacle I see the racer following me finds a bypass from the right. It's so much like me to make my life harder...
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A marshall at the last rocky summit tells me there are 8 miles to go, with only a few smaller hills remaining. That's the best news I've heard today.
At those "smaller hills" I hit the wall again. I force another chocolate bar down my throat and pass another completely shattered yomper, a bloke from Brazil. Some others seem to be dying even more than me.
Those two from the last big climb catch up – an Englishman and a Portuguese. We are surrounded by a grey cloud concealing all the remaining views. The weather and terrain here are so stereotypically British. No path, just vast grasslands scattered with rocks and bogs. We look at every hill hoping it's the last one.
Finally it's all downhill. André the Portuguese and me get in front. It's 7 pm, getting dark and the grey cloud turns black. Suddenly the wind starts howling and it's raining evil. Welcome to Scotland.
In the horizontal rain the visibility becomes close to zero. We can hardly see the wee red flags and soon we lose track of them. Is this still Skyline, or maybe Skyfall? Today's adventures would be enough for more than one action film...
We run around in search of a flag and turn back in an attempt to find the last one we saw. Matt and Fernando join us. Someone has a GPS track but it leads us into scrambling terrain too far to the north. The ridge, which the paper map shows we've got to hold on to, is vague. The four of us decide to stay together but spread out wider to search for flags. The 14-hour cut-off at the finish passes at 9 pm.
The Brazilian finds the first flag and then it all works. Together we look for the next ones. The terrain is still not easy, with plenty of rocky outcrops and bogs. It's getting darker but with headtorches on our field of view would be limited.
When we hit the path we know we've made it. We've got 50 minutes remaining for less than 4 miles of easy path and gravel road we started with in the morning, now all the way downhill. We thank one another for great teamwork. It would be way harder on one's own.
A marshall ticks us off and we put the headtorches on. André and Fernando run ahead while Matt and me trot steadily, talking about stuff. We catch up with the Brazilian later on. At Kinlochleven despite the late hour we are welcomed as if we were winners. The clock shows 13 hours and 50 minutes. Everyone who has finished this carnage is a winner. There were no random people here and perhaps that's why as many as 142 out of 180 participants managed to finish the race.
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* * * * *
Glen Nevis, 24 September, 6:30 pm. I sit in front of my tent, cooking a dinner on gas stove and sipping a local beer. Just a while ago I came back from Ben Nevis, just to stretch my legs two days after the race. I went up via Càrn Mòr Dearg and ran down the shortcuts of the Pony Trail. The setting sun casts an alpenglow on its slopes.
This race was one of my dreams that came true. I spent the last several months training for it. My shape could have been better but at least my head stayed strong. It was all on the edge, which is quite usual for me. As I often said before, adventures seem to follow me wherever I go. At least they always make a better story to tell.
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A few dreams and challenges are still waiting. Some dragons are still left to slay. But now it's time to take a good rest.
We were here
Grieving the saddened faces
Conquering the darkest places
Time to rest now and to finish the show
And become the music, one with alpenglow
[Nightwish – Alpenglow]
Kamil Weinberg
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Start w Biegiem Po Zdrowie był marzeniem 12-letniej Wiktorii Kozłowskiej z Poznania. „Kiki”, choć cierpi na poważne problemy ze zdrowiem i ma wszczepiony specjalny symulator serca, po badaniach i rehabilitacji otrzymała zgodę lekarzy na czynny udział w imprezie.
