Here we are again, embarking on
another of Mad Dog McIntyre’s mid-summer madness dreamt up and agreed to in a
flight of winter fancy.
This time around, the 2012 or third
version of the Cadogans’ Grouse Beaters’ Team events, is the Great Wilderness
Challenge. Walking through the wilderness of Wester Ross.
Check-in on Saturday morning is at an
ungodly hour in Poolewe. The team comprises Roddy Wilkie, David McIntyre, Alan
Carruthers and David’s son Robbie McIntyre. Robbie is masquerading as Iain Hall
who had to pull out a few weeks before. Iain’s way of getting out of the
Challenge was to move house - one of the top half-a-dozen of life’s most
stressful events. Bit extreme, Iain! Next time forget the house move and just
say you’re not up to it. We’ll be perfectly understanding!?!
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| The Cadogans Grouse Beaters |
The first thing on arrival is
check-in. The nice lady can’t find Iain Hall’s name on the sheet. “How do you
spell Holme, dear?” Before Robbie starts spelling out H-O-L-M-E, we all dive in
with “It’s Hall. H-A-L-L.” And the same for Iain. “It’s I-A-I-N.” “And he’s
from Glasgow”, we add for good measure. She hesitates and then remarks
pleasantly, “Are you his carers? It’s so nice of you to take him out for the
day.” Oh dear, this is not a good start.
After check-in we are bussed to the
start which is at Corrie Halle, near Dundonell, near Little Loch Broom, near …
near … nowhere. Interesting name that Corrie Halle. Or was it Halle Corrie?
Maybe Halle Borrie?
The Great Wilderness Challenge - and
it comes in several forms - there’s the 7-mile version, the 13-mile version and
the 25-mile version. So, of course, it’s the 25 miler for us. The only
acknowledgement of tired and aching bodies (and that’s before we’ve even
started) is we’re allowed to walk instead of run. Run? Yes, some are even
madder than us. Run a marathon, but instead of on the level, it’s on rough
rocky paths and has a couple of steep ascents thrown in just for good measure.
However, it IS a lovely day. Sunshine!
Dramatic skylines and skyscapes. The mountains are amazing … awesome ….. cool.
And there’s a breeze (most of the time) to keep the millions and millions of
wee biting b******* known as midges that we can almost see peering out of the purple blooming
heather waiting for their chance to attack.
Very quickly the serious business of
putting one foot in front of the other starts to become the overriding business
of the day. It’s not a gentle start. Off the bus that dropped us at Halle Borrie
and it’s pretty much into the first climb.
The team quickly fragments. McIntyre
Junior ambles towards the front of the pack with a nonchalance bordering on
arrogance. Carruthers tucks in behind him, hoping to emulate the British
Olympic cycling team by slipstreaming behind the leaders. Wilkie and McIntyre
go for the Mo Farrah approach and settle into a steady if unimpressive pace but
within sight of the leaders. We’ll catch up later. It’s round about this stage
that you’re sussing out the opposition. I don’t mind being left for dust by him
or her but I’m certainly not letting that decrepit old has-been beat me. Of
course, the decrepit old has-been will probably turn out to be the current
holder of the super-vets extreme fell runner’s world record.
It’s too hot in the sunshine and one
of the day’s many clothing adjustments has to take place. If I’m to keep up
with McIntyre Senior then it’ll have to be enacted on the hoof. T-shirt off.
Thermal base layer off. Man-boobs on display (I would have claimed it as a
wardrobe malfunction but nobody believed Janet Jackson so I doubt they would
believe me). T-shirt back on. Don’t think anyone noticed. Stride hardly broken
or pace slowed. That’s better.
Oh oh! Although Mad Dog managed to
keep his eyes averted, I think super-vet stole a glance and has been
permanently scarred. He’s gone a peculiar colour -Cadogans’ vomit-green.
That’ll slow him down a bit.
Later on the pattern has developed.
Endless mind-numbing miles with eyes fixed downwards to ensure the next step
doesn’t miss the path or hit a rock or jar already aching soles and toes.
Occasional brief glances upwards to take in the dramatic scenery. Every twenty
minutes a cloud looms, the sky darkens and we’re drenched by a heavy but
mercifully brief downpour. For some of us, this means a struggle to get
waterproofs and bunnet on. Quickly followed by the reverse procedure when the
rain passes and sun returns. Hard, extra work in addition to the walking stuff.
Others of us (Mad Dog for one) seem immune to the drenching rain and carry on
as if they are water-repellent. Makes keeping up more of a struggle than it
need be. That, as well as the modest but noticeably weighty pack I’m carrying.
Most seem to be carrying almost nothing. Hmmm. Note to self: Next time (if there
is a next time) ignore all the dire warnings about refused entry if you do not
have waterproofs, map, compass, whistle, first aid kit, spare boot laces, midge
repellent, sun block, food, emergency food, water and change of shoes for
fording the 2 rivers that are deep. I’m really pleased I also popped in the
RSPB Pocket Guide to British Birds and binoculars. They weren’t put to much use
as all bird life had been well scared off by the time I wandered through. Binoculars
and bird book weren’t really required for the only wildlife spotted -a small
frog and a hairy caterpillar.
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| The views werent bad! |
The hardest part is undoubtedly the
very steep climb up Gleann na Muice Beag to a height of 1,919 feet. That really
gets the ticker working overtime. The summit and a no-frills checkpoint is
achieved. It’s Checkpoint 4, just plain water and orange coloured water
(supposed to do you good) so this checkpoint is unlikely to win my private Best
Checkpoint Award competition.
I’m still slightly delirious after the
gut wrenching climb to the top of Gleann na Muice Beag and starting the drop
down into Carnmore beside Loch Fionn (Checkpoint 5, Mountain Rescue guys,
excellent facilities and quality of service). Having got to the top, gasped for
breath and had some water, I enquire of Mad Dog for how long we’re stopping. “You’ve
had your stop”, he says and sets off. I blink and suddenly a gap is opening up
between us. Memories of last year’s Rob Roy Challenge and the false promise of
“All for one and one for all!” return. God, he’s trying to get away from me
again. We’ll see about that.
I buckle down but despite my best
efforts a mile or so further on and a few hundred yards have opened up between
us. How did that happen?
Strange things are going on. I’m
trying hard. Concentrating on the hard work of putting one foot in front of the
other. My mind’s drifting. All I can see is Mad Dog’s gently swaying posterior
disappearing in the distance. The name of the start point, Corrie Halle, is in
my head. Halle Corrie. Halle Borrie. Somehow Corrie Halle morphs into Halle
Berry, the Bond Girl from Die Another Day and allows me to drift from the
unpleasant McIntyre posterior into more pleasant orange-bikini images.
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David
McIntyre
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Halle Berry
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I awake, as suddenly people are
passing me. Not just one. Many. Have I started going backwards? No, it’s OK.
It’s the runners. They started hours after us walkers and suddenly they are
breezing past with hardly a care in the world. 2 guys pass and then the first girl. She’s got a decidedly odd
underwear arrangement on display. I wonder if it’s to protect against
embarrassing Paula Radcliffe road-side marathon moments. Luckily she’s out of
sight quite quickly and I can resume my solitary Bond Girl musings.
Suddenly. What’s that I can see ahead?
The rhythm of the McIntyre swaying booty [def: booty, noun, sexually attractive
curvaceous buttocks often attributed to Beyoncé Knowles; adjective,
bootylicious] seems to have increased from gentle swing tempo to furious rock
tempo. It can’t be. Yes, it is. Mad Dog’s running! I must be hallucinating.
Look again. Screw up eyes. Peer. Glasses off. Rub my eyes. Glasses on. He’s
definitely running. He’s definitely trying to get away from me. Clydesdale
horses can run (well only if they’re in a Pixar film called Brave) but McIntyre
can’t run. What’s happening? Maybe we’re in a CGI film.
My God, things have plumbed new
depths. This is desperate. In which case, if a Clydesdale horse can run then so
can a thoroughbred. I amaze myself and reach the dizzying speed of 5.4 miles
per hour (as confirmed by my satellite-tracking fancy-dan phone app later that
evening) which overwhelms his feeble 3.7 mph downhill booty and wind-assisted
effort. 10 minutes later I have caught him up. Aaaahh! To the victor the spoils
of ….. of …… another 12 miles to go. But at least I can fix my eyes on
something other than the McIntyre booty.
Checkpoint 6, H M Coastguard guys.
Seems to be about a dozen of them. And they are definitely competing for the
most hospitable checkpoint award. I make the mistake of saying to the
Coastguard guys that the Mountain Rescue guys have drams on offer. “Come this
way.” And in the back of their pick-up was what could only be described as a
full bar. I desist from the proffered large whisky which is just as well as I think
they’re mainly for the coastguard guys and later on if there’s any left, for
the mountain rescue guys when they come down off the hill.
It’s sunshine and downhill all the way
for the final 5 or so miles and the finish line is in sight.
McIntyre and Wilkie cross the line in
a dependable but plodding 8¼ hours with booty intact (except one of us is
suffering from jogger’s butt cheeks … think jogger’s nipples … lower down …
round the back). Carruthers and McIntyre Junior are looking cool, calm and
collected having finished ages before. Carruthers finished in 7½ hours (having
been dragged along in the slipstream of, not Bradley Wiggins but, attractive
young ladies who were keeping up a very fast pace for the last 10 miles or so.
Maybe they were trying to get away from you, Alan!) and McIntyre Junior,
justifying his early confidence, with a time of 5½ hours as the first walker
across the line.
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| Alan Carruthers |
A celebratory bottle of Cava later and
we’re staggering in the direction of The Pool House Hotel. We’re staggering not
because of the alcohol but because the ancients amongst us have completely ceased
up in seconds after completing the 25 miles. The Pool House Hotel is, according
to McIntyre Senior, an S&M Hotel. (“How does he know?” I hear you ask.) We
don’t go in but instead end up in the adjoining and suitably respectable
Poolewe Community Hall where showers and food await.
Boots off. Relax. Homemade soup. A few
beers. A good night’s sleep awaits. Thank goodness it’s over.
Apparently Mad Dog has already been
heard to mention the Etape Caledonia (something about cycling a long way round two
of Scotland’s bigger lochs) in May 2013 but nobody’s listening.
Great Wilderness
Challenge
The Cadogans
Grouse Beaters
18
August 2012
Commentary by
Roddy Wilkie
