Another crack at the West Highland Way, and another DNF. I’m gutted, of course I am. I went into this one feeling pretty fit, thanks to my new training with David at RunRhaw and Jessica Brydon at CBF Run Club. Training had gone well and I’d managed to keep my left knee and right Achilles mostly under control.
But a week at Windermere I picked up a rotten virus, and the chest pains were brutal.
At times it honestly felt like I was having a heart attack. Then the heat hit, those 30-degree nights made it feel like I couldn’t breathe, bringing back all my old asthma struggles.
Deep down I had that gut feeling I shouldn’t start. I should’ve listened and stayed at home. But I didn’t. My head was ready for something under 24 hours, yet after only about 3km I already felt like I’d run the full 96 miles.
Still, I put my head down, clicked into the rhythm of my poles and feet, and just started knocking out the kilometres. My pace dropped right down to death-march mode, but I kept moving.
Coming down into Kinlochleven was scary. I felt completely empty, no spring left in my legs at all. I grabbed a bit of orange and apple at the checkpoint and it gave me a wee boost… but it didn’t last long. Heading up the Old Military Road and then the Devil’s Staircase was pure torture.
My back and chest were aching, I had nothing in the tank, and I was broken, proper tears came. All I could do was remember what my dad said after Kilimanjaro: small steps. So that’s what I did. Tiny steps, one after the other.
At the top of the Devil’s Staircase the views of Etive Mor were completely hidden by the weather closing in.
I made my way down carefully, especially past the spot where I fell two years ago. No heroics this time, just slow and safe. By the time I was heading towards King’s House I knew I was done. I checked the tracker for the first time and saw I was last.
I phoned the Glencoe checkpoint and told them I couldn’t go on. They picked me up at the bottom of the centre.
It’s a disappointing result, no doubt about it. I should’ve trusted my body instead of pushing through with my head.
But even on a bad day I still got myself out there, I still fought through some really tough miles, and I still made it to Glencoe. That counts for something.
The West Highland Way isn’t going anywhere. I’ll be back stronger, wiser, and hopefully healthier next time. Onward.