Endure: After

Part 2 (of 2)

On Saturday 17th August 2024 I ran the Speyside Way Ultra Marathon.
This is part 2 of the post, you can read part 1 here.

If you would prefer to listen than read, click here.

---

A few years ago I started to learn the art of endurance in the face of adversity. I discovered the concept of sisu meaning: determination, guts, hardiness, courage, willpower, tenacity, resilience, strength, perseverance. Yes and yes and yes. The essence of this action-oriented mindset requires a person to sustain courage in the face of adversity, to do what needs to be done, no matter the cost, no matter the pain. My whole world fell apart before ultra running was on my radar and I wouldn’t change a thing.

The word sisu originates from ‘sisus’, which literally means ‘guts’ in Finnish

Saturday 17th August 2024

3am—Mum and I leave Kinloss. My belly is full of organic porridge, smooth peanut butter and banana. I’ve not had enough coffee. It is pitch black and the roads are empty. Mum is driving, singing as we walk in fields of gold (which I will remember later in the race as I run through a wheat field). My mum has already told me she is miffed I didn’t give her more notice to get a personalised t-shirt made. I laugh. But she is serious, which is cute considering she is wearing a rainbow jumper. I love her more today than ever.

I tell her what stuck with me from the race briefing:

• 1) normal people don’t do this

• 2) celebrate the start line

• 3) normal people don’t do this

She slams on the brakes for what looks like a small deer but as we get closer we see it’s a huge hare. “There’s your sign she says.” She laughs when I respond, “Now where is the tortoise?”

5am Start

The Speyside Way Ultra Marathon sets off from Aviemore, in darkness and an eerie quiet. I am used to races beginning with blaring music. It’s not like that. It’s more like taking your place in a group meditation where the noise simmers and a collective hush happens. I will be running for half a day of my life. A woman asks if we can run together. I say something that sounds like, “yes, for a bit” meaning, usually I run alone and I’m not very sociable and as long as I don’t have to speak and I need to get my head in the game. (One of the organisers later tells me, the woman (a great runner) told her she ran with me for a few seconds in Aviemore before I, “took off, never to be seen again.”)

I am sussing out the pack. One woman drops behind me, another catches up. She tells me we can get lost together. This isn’t reassuring. The woman is conversational. I am not. I want to tell her I am a quiet runner. I am nervous. I need to preserve my energy. I don’t speak much. I am sensitive to this energy. She is complaining about the bus being late. I want to tell her starting a race with this mindset can’t help, surely? But how would I know her race tactics? I’ve never run an ultra. Plus, I am not here to coach anyone but myself—I run into the darkness, alone.

I hear my own breathing. I told myself I wouldn’t start too fast, which is what I always tell myself before I start too fast. It’s not that I’m trying to keep up so much as I am trying not to get lost (knowing fine well I will). It’s not long before we leave behind the concrete and meander our way onto the gravel path with the first signposts of Speyside Way to guide us. The heather is vibrant as the sun rises and the contrast of orange and purple is breathtaking. As I run through the forest, the sunlight through the trees is so spectacular I consider stopping to take a photo. Photos never do it justice though. I feel myself smile and hear myself say thank you out loud.

The forest has this dewy morning smell that’s brought to life by the warmth of daybreak. A soft carpet of pine needles underfoot would be comforting if it wasn’t covered with pinecone obstacles—the forest equivalent to Lego I guess. In front is a man with a broad central accent and a small apple in his right hand. His feet are confident navigating uneven terrain. I watch his footing and admire the confidence he has, giving in to gravity on each downhill, preserving energy I presume.

It may be my first ultra, but I am a quick learner.

6 miles in I can feel the benefit of a solid training block and a good taper. Not that I’d have said that last week when experiencing phantom pains and taper tantrums. My main work two weeks prior to race day was shifting my mindset from a reactive: “F*ck! I am not going to be able to run” every time those shooting pains came to unexpectedly stab me, to a more responsive: “(Ouch!) I mean yay—my body is healing.”

The body will follow the mind. Period.

My heel pain is flaring already. I read a message from my physiotherapist at 2am suggesting running 65 miles (it will turn out to be more than this) on heel pain may cause a stress fracture. Not a good idea. The message is clearly bothering me and I need to do something about it so I decide that I best win if it’s going to give me a stress fracture. Now I am locked in. I intend to hold first female for the whole race. This may seem cocky considering I don’t know any of the other runners (and many of the females are visibly strong) but I know myself and consistency is my strength.

At the first aid station I’ve lost all sense of clock time. My mum is waiting. Her excitement meets my race nerves. She is so proud that my heart could burst. I can tell how much she wants to be there. I am a mother. I recognise this love. Despite that, I am still impatient filling my bottles. I want my coffee in a cup. She doesn’t know this and neither did I. I don’t even know why it matters. I also want espresso: strong, sharp, short.

Don’t worry, I already apologised for any/all uncharacteristic behaviour(s) that can/do happen during a race.

I am not an experienced ultra runner and quickly learn that another bag with more pockets will be better for the future. I borrowed a brilliant one that I was very much enjoying putting things in, but tried it on two taper runs (the second time hoping I might have grown into it overnight with all the carb loading) but decided the chafing from that little bit too much movement wouldn’t be worth it so I opted for less pockets, less chafing, less practical.

Less than a third of the way into the race, I already don’t want to eat. I sip coffee, take a squirrel size bite of a bagel with peanut butter and banana (wishing it was toasted) then head over the bridge, shouting I love you to my mum and remembering how she desperately wanted to tell her neighbour about all of this yesterday and now I wish I told her that she could.

I stop for the famous side of the road squat.

There’s so much of the route that is overgrown. I take terrible allergic reactions and wonder if I should have taken my antihistamine this morning. I get lost. Then I get more lost following a runner who is also lost. He tells me that’s what happens—we get lost—and we just have to get back on track and keep going. Noted.

It’s essential to have a GPX file of the route downloaded to run this race. I don’t have a fancy watch (Santa Baby…) so I am using my phone to track the route and my battery is decreasing at a worrying rate. After a while it kindly prompts me: off route? Again?! Surely not! I wish it would shout turn around you wally, you’re wasting your time. I run the way it tells me only to meet the guy who likes apples (with another runner). They tell me I am going the wrong way. I am showing them my phone and trusting technology (bad idea). We run in opposite directions. The map is telling me to run this way but when I bump into another woman who asks if I am okay, I am confused. She reassures me that I am going the wrong way and that she has done this race before. I turn and follow her directions. I run ahead, get lost again, then decide to hold back for a bit and stay as a group. For a while the four of us navigate the next section together, checking in on one another as we stumble over some tricky terrain. When the race director mentioned the cut down trees, we didn’t expect to be going downhill disappearing beneath branch and bracken. A whole section of trees thrown on the ground like a child had emptied their wooden toy box. Alan asks my name (again). I tell him it’s Heather. I also tell him that if he forgets, he could just look at my race bib where it’s written in bold black writing. He laughs and tells me it’s the best comments he’s heard all day. I tell him he can use the line on someone else and take credit.

Humour is another race day essential.

On the uphill, I break away. Everyone knows I am newbie. Alan tells me I really power up the hills (which I think is a compliment) until he follows it with, the trick to ultras is to walk hills to preserve energy. So it is here that I learn to use the hills as opportunities to refuel, refocus and then, power on (slowly). For a while, we run together.

This man is genuinely taken by the beauty of the landscape and his awe is contagious. For not being a sociable runner, I am enjoying his company. He stops me getting lost at least ten thousand times. Actually, I would probably still be out there now if it wasn’t for him (thank you friend). We celebrate chaga on birch trees, red rowan berries, the sunrise, the beauty of Scotland’s forests, the colour of blooming heather—which leads us to exploring the colour purple, chakras, spirituality, healing, how running is a form of meditation, how we can train for adversity, endurance, and integrate our shadow.

We talk about discipline over motivation, endurance for life. We both have our strengths and weaknesses and for miles we take turns pushing and pulling the other, swapping the lead role when one of us tires. This is the unexpected joys of running an ultra with a stranger.

Eventually, I clock my watch and head off in front.

I am just about to leave the second aid station when I see Alan come in. I wish him and his donut a lovely time together and off I go, solo, with the river on my right.

The sound of water and birdsong, the breeze through the branches. The light casting shadows on leaves. The imprint of butterfly wings on high branches.

It’s easy to be taken by spell of the sensuous when running in the wonder of the natural world, but I also need to stay alert for the bright orange fairy sized flags placed at hedgehog height which are doing a dreadful job at keeping me on course.

I continue to ignore all the small stones in my shoe. I figure stopping for any length of time will cost me my place and I remember my children are coming. I imagine my children watching me run my first ultra and coming in as first female. It makes me cry. My body floods with end of race emotions. The opportunity to imprint their little hearts and minds and childhood memories with this moment becomes reason to push through. I never saw this coming, but it carries me right to the ribbon.

Strong humans raise strong humans

My stomach cramps kicked in a few miles back. I knew this would happen. This is not race related. It’s because it’s nearly the full moon and I bleed with the moon, so here I am, mid-race: blood, sweat and tears. Literally.

This is the reality of being a female runner. Our cycles do not care about our race dates. It’s madness.

I go and I go and I go—as does the hill they warned us of in the briefing. If I had seen the hills/terrain/map I’d never have chosen this as my first ultra. Sometimes not knowing is best. Dealing with it when there’s no choice but to keep moving forward. My friend (an ultra runner) told me to keep moving forward no matter what. He also sent me a quote saying, “if the price is to be pain, so be it!” These are my favourite kind of friends: savage solidarity.

I deal with each obstacle as it comes: bogs, bouncy bridges, nettles, nausea, fallen down trees, dogs off leash, a woman peeing on the path, stepping stones, stomach cramps, inclines, ten million gates, hills to heaven, pain in my heel, muscles that haven’t been active for a while/ever.

One woman calls me bonkers, another says I am wild. Many strangers tell me I am doing a great job—if only they knew where I started. This is not a road race. This is Life. There is no straight path. I don’t know where I am going. I just keep moving forward. I go and I go and I go.

The whole atmosphere in Aberlour is jovial. My heart is happy. We can do hard things and still be happy. To be human is to hold the polarity. All of it. Everything. All at once. There are happy dogs and happy people and the smell of salty chips and honestly, I am considering asking the man on the bench if I can have three. More beauty catches my eye though. I am a sucker for colour. For light. For water. For wildflowers. The river has run away to my left and there is an apple orchard with the most stunning spread of wildflowers: blues, yellows, red poppies galore. There are shiny apples I want to eat. Yes, I want to stop here (forever) to take in the place and the peace. I am enchanted, alive with the magic, the sparkle, the feeling of light on water, warmth on my skin, I can feel my own heartbeat and I am suddenly amazed at the body’s capacity to do this. I know it’s all temporary—joy and pain—but whilst it’s here, I take in it all in and I start to feel a strange sense of elation in this altered state of awareness. I can feel the undercurrent of the river, trembling leaves, I can feel the air ripple by the wings of an electric blue dragonfly. Is this transcendence? Is this runner’s high? Wow! Heather! Look—bright orange fairy sized flag!

Pay attention! Sharp right. Roger that—back to the grind.

I have worked out it will be 8 x 8 = 64 miles, plus a cool down.

So I am running 8 mile reps and clocking when I am a quarter or a third or half-way or two thirds etc. This is satisfying. For a woman of words, tactical numbers help me break down a long run and honestly I’ve hit high miles with surprising comfort, considering I’ve only ever run 33.33 miles before now. I am already in the 50’s and sure, things ache, but I expected that, and I’ve plenty still to give.

At Fochabers, I come to the fourth and final checkpoint before the home stretch. I hear them before I see them. I must get my loudness from my dad. He thought running this was bonkers and brilliant. My kids run towards me, high five me and run to the aid station alongside me, where everyone helps me get what I need: a sip of red bull, coffee, half a banana, an oat bar, Tailwind and water. I want to be as light as possible for the final miles so leave all unnecessary weight from my bag. My youngest seems oblivious to anything other than the big question he has been living with all week: is now is the time I get to have one of mummy’s mini donuts*?

Yes, the time is Now!

*They actually turned out to be such a disappointment (to me).

They tell me there is 7 miles left. (They lie…)

Flies keep going directly into my eyeballs and honestly, I am starting to take it personally. I put on sunglasses I’ve never worn. I can’t see. I take the flies instead, apologising to each one as it dies on my eyeball and I fish it out trying not to run into another tree.

At 61 miles I bump into the only marshal of the day. “How many miles to go?” I say, expecting a cheerful, “one!” Instead, he says, “around 6!” He must have it wrong. He is definitely wrong. Is he wrong? Am I wrong? I look at my GPX. Oh my god, he’s telling the truth.

My mind has told my body we are doing 62 miles. There is a real mental difference when you prepare for 100km/62 miles and actually have to run 109km/68miles+. My body has started to slow down in anticipation of finishing. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! We’ve got work to do. I am losing focus, losing my way, losing energy. My watch pings for the third time at 62 miles with low battery then goes off. Bugger. He said 6 miles about 3 seconds ago. How can I run without my watch telling me how slow I am going? I can’t run ‘to feel’ at the best of times, never mind 62 miles into a race when everything hurts.

Whoever said, “It’s not over when you’re tired, it’s over when you’re done,” thank you. I start to dig deep. I also start to wonder when I first cried today. Each time I thought of finishing? Each time I remembered why/why not? When I thought I had 1 mile to go but actually had 6? I was close to crying when I ran out of water and fuel 6 miles away from the second aid station after eating a jaffa cake that dried out my mouth so bad I threw all of them at/to my mum and refused them for the rest of the race. Maybe it was after my heel was so sore I wondered if I had a stress fracture already? Perhaps after my period came mid-race just like I didn’t want it to? Or after I got lost for the millionth time? After the agony of another going-to-be-lost toenail? Or when the sign said 2 miles to Buckie, and I wanted to be done?

I see a sign, it says:

“tough runs don’t last, tough runners do”

I can always stomach a mental snack!

The sea is to my left, I had visualised this moment (apart from that couple weren’t walking their dog on the wall). I am so close. An old man cheers me on. I ask him where the finish line is. He tells me he isn’t staff. We laugh.

Oh my god, I can still laugh.

I can still run! (Reasonably well).

I remember the kids—the thought of us crossing the line together.

I remember the incredible hare that ran beside me in the overgrown grass earlier in the race.

I remember a road sign I saw that morning that nodded towards the death of one identity (from my married name) and knew my dad would be at the finish to give me my name Young (at Heart) back.

I remember a moment in the race where I ran through a dark tunnel into the light (for real). I remember how I had been rushed to Raigmore 2 years ago on 27^th June (a good way to ruin your dad’s birthday party) with a medically unexplainable near death experience, where I saw this exact scene (to exquisite detail) and was so taken by the significance during the race that I nearly fell over.

I remember that on the 27^th June this year my divorce went through and when I received that paperwork, I ran my first non-race ultra of 33.33 miles to mark the threshold.

I remember the list I ate for breakfast.

I remember everything I have endured.

I remember that I can do hard things.

I remember I wouldn’t change a thing.

Now I see it: the bee sting—the final push towards the finish. I remember the line on my vision board that says “the will to win” and I can see a sign that says Ultra Mum.

I can see the finish line with ribbon. I can see the faces of people I love with people I love. People who have loved me my whole life, in all my bonkers and brilliant.

I can see my name in rainbow writing—Heather Mackay Young (at heart)—waiting to be reclaimed, re-membered.

I tell Noah and River to hold my hand and help me across the line.

They want to race me—I do what I said I would do.

I make sure I win!

Gratitude

Thank you to my mum for willingly waking at 2am and wearing your rainbow jumper and living one of the best days of your life in and through and with me. You were super crew, and you will make the cut in future (if you learn how to make espresso).
I love the bones of you Mum.

Thank you to my dad for giving me my name back and reminding me who I am, Heather Mackay Young (at Heart). Forever.

Thank you to Kevin for loving the mother of your children in the way that you do and rooting for me no matter what. Our friendship is evidence of endurance.

Thank you to those Joyboys who inspire me to be the best version of myself. Thank you to River for eating my donuts and to Noah for letting me win my own race.

Thank you to Kyle Kyle with the big smile and Debbie for bringing your kids along to play with mine—oh yeah, and for organising an epic race with brilliant runners and the dazzling beauty.

Thank you to everyone behind the scenes who organised, volunteered and made this event possible, including the medic and Viking photographers (with cool plaits, nice touch).

Thank you to the woman who said she waited to see me cross the line before she went home for curry and wine. I don’t even know why you did, but I love you!

Thank you to my training buddy Brian for dangling champagne and carbs as incentive for me to run 68 miles. It worked! Thank you for the long runs and shared snacks and the way we just wing it in running and life.

Thank you to Alastair for inspiring an ultra into me and convincing me I was ready and bonkers enough to get it done. You inspire me!

Thank you to friends and family and clients and strangers who are rooting for me in some way or another and wondering what madness will come next.

Thank you as many times as there were gates/obstacles and opportunities to get lost on the Speyside Way Ultra Marathon 2024.

Job done! Milestone moment, for sure.