Skye Trail Ultra 2022 report
Without intending it this year has turned into a big one for my ultra-running dreams. With the many delayed and deferred races of the last few years, they’ve all rocked up together eager to party. Turning this gate-crashing rabble into the semblance of a plan, gave me the 50 mile Arc50 in January (race report here) the 75 mile Skye Trail Ultra at the end of May, Lakeland 100 end of July, and the big mother — UTMB at the end of August. A progression of distance and difficulty, hopefully building confidence and strength along the way. At least, that’s the plan…
Also trying to fix my nutrition strategy which has resulted in more versions of gut distress than is polite to mention except in hard core ultra-running company. To this end I consulted with High Performance Dietitian Rebecca Dent on improving my race nutrition strategy and she came up with some excellent, straightforward and workable advice, which I have been trying to implement between the Arc back in January and Skye in May. Boiled down, the plan is to drink more through races and to practice eating and drinking more in training.
The Skye Trail Ultra follows one of the most spectacular routes you could hope to run in the U.K., perhaps in the world, down the length of the Trotternish Ridge then across the island, skirting the Cuillins and looping around the West Coast, through abandoned villages for a taster of Scottish history and ending on an old quarry track into Broadford. Lucky enough to have friends who live on Skye, I had recced parts of the route a few years back and those same friends now also bravely agreed to crew for me, with no idea what this might entail. With a morning crew and an evening crew they were at least able to split the duties — big hats off to those crews (often one woman) who kept smiling, feeding and encouraging their runners the whole way round.
First crew duty, a very early morning drive up to the northern tip of the island — beautiful scenery and all the animals in the kingdom warming their hairy wee backsides on the tarmac. We overshoot the landmark telephone box in our excitement but soon join the subdued, slightly nervous gathering — always that feeling of “What am I doing here? Am I mad? Are we all mad?” A rather longer wait than ideal till we’re able to line up for the start beside the phone box and a very small race start (less than 30 mad enough for this one). Off at 05:50 with a nice leg-easing jog down a tarmac road.
Duntulm — Portree: 26.5 miles, 2447m ascent. The first section is by far the highest and longest, a third of the total distance and half the total elevation. It is also stunning. After a boggy approach and a sharp climb, most of the way we are handrailing the cliff edge, which plummets sheer to the East, with far-reaching views across the island and mainland. Early on we drop down into the Quiraing, full of rock pillars and twisting paths, orc and dwarf country. The sun is breaking picturesquely through broken clouds, there’s a light Easterly breeze and though the ground underfoot is sodden — every bog, and there are many, feels at capacity — the conditions are pretty great. And of course, an hour or two into an ultra, everything feels great…
This section is so remote there is only one water station, just after the Quiraing, then another six hours of hills with two possible stream refills. My new nutrition strategy is big on energy drink so this is a tricky one — by the time I get to the first stream I have sucked my bottles dry as a raisin and the icy refill is wonderful even if I spill half the drink powder on myself and the heather. I always seem to be running in some company though who exactly changes back and forth, as I’m quicker up than down — there’s Chris, also from Dorset; Lee, who has done the race before; Jimmy and Emma, running very strongly, and Katie who I meet early and late on. Trying to keep up with Chris on a descent I sit down sharply as my legs slide from under me, jarring my shoulder but nothing worse. A good reminder to run your own race.
Some bigger hills come into range, with more immense views in all directions and down to the Cuillins — we’ll be there later. There are eagles flying below us, tiny houses scattered on the coastline. Hartaval then the Storr feel like hard work on tired legs, the famous Old Man hiding coyly out of sight of the summit, although I think it’s here that a marshal is casually standing to send us on our way. I’m glad to be following Lee’s confident lead up the steep scree and dirt round Bhein Dearg (pronounced Derak for Sassanachs like me), which feels quite precarious with so much water in it, and I make sure not to get left behind.
After this there are a couple of smaller hills but mainly a long descent towards Portree, easy to see and hard to reach. One of the features of this trail is that there is no trail. In places the cliff edge has defined a path but through the bogs it is take your chances — and discover the highly variable squidge factor of every shade and type of vegetation step by soggy step. So even a couple of miles downhill is, well, hard work. Bizarrely and delightfully, at the foot of this wilderness a very nice man is waiting to usher us through a garden (his I presume) and out onto the road. Happy to run on tarmac for a change, I trot through Portree — lunchtime in town, normal people doing normal stuff, so weird — and on the other side see the very welcome sight of the crews, parked up like a wagon train. First Lady, someone shouts as I pass — a great surprise and encouragement, though I know Emma is only just behind me.
This race is on the Scottish drop bag system — where you supply your own food and drink at the check points (only 4, around 12 mile intervals after the first marathon). My wonderful A team get to work with soup, tea, marmite sandwiches and lovely smiles and enthusiasm. With supplies topped up, I trot off along a squelchy path on the side of Loch Portree, only to meet the crew again once we hit the tarmac for the next section for a change of shoes and generous slather of Vaseline and Sudocrem — the magic foot-saving combination.
Portree-Sligachan 11 miles, 369m ascent. Trotting along the Braes road and then up the side of Loch Sligachan is gently rolling, warm and sunny, very pleasant. Emma catches up with me and we chat until we reach the lochside path, where she tootles ahead, while I find it hard to get into a rhythm and end up walking too much. Sligachan comes into view early but stays stubbornly at a distance — I plod along, drinking and eating 2 more gels and a bar. The last stretch is very wet underfoot and I feel slow and cold, slipping on my down jacket against the wind at my back. Glad to see my team for more soup, drink refills, foot care and back to the first shoes — Inov8 275s, great grip and lightweight.
Sligachan-Elgol 11.7 miles, 573m ascent. A strongly defined path up Glen Sligachan, made interesting by puddles and rocks all the way, there’s no worry about route-finding on this section. With the Cuillins on one side and the sombre side of Bla Bheinn on the other and the most beautiful evening light flooding the valley, this is another spectacular section. I spend almost the entirety of it alone and struggle to keep my mind on the job and my feet moving at any speed at all.
Plus I had recce-ed the Camasunary-Elgol section a couple of years back and vividly recall a very exposed path, with the ground quite literally dropping into the sea from under my feet, clinging fearfully to tough little bushes, praying they had better footing than me. But the dreaded section never materialises — I suppose it has actually fallen into the sea since then. It’s a surprise and relief to find myself at Elgol, an hour slower than I meant to be but still in good shape. I’ve drunk another litre of fluid — Tailwind and High 5 protein drink, eaten half a Chia bar and two gels — one of which explodes, covering me and my GPS in stickiness for the rest of the race. I swig some Crampfix too, for the sharp taste mainly but I don’t get cramp so that’s a double win. Met by my B crew, full of smiles, soup, sandwiches, more footcare — such pampered feet — and another change of shoes (Inov8 300 — a thicker tread for long slow miles). Refill the bottles, take a sweet and a roll for the next section and head off to get as many miles done before dark as possible.
Elgol-Blaven, 9 miles, 374m ascent. Although I’ve recced this section I get confused about where the detour is and am relieved when Jimmy catches up and points the way ahead across fields and tracks. We go on together, but as it finally gets dark (hurrah for Scottish summer nights) we fall silent, retreating into our own tired headtorch headspace. It is still very good to have company as we march up the long road to Blaven, seeing the even longer opposite shore of Loch Slapin on the other side and knowing we will soon be heading back out that way. The wind is in our faces, for the first time — the weather is perfect, not too hot or cold — and this is the lowest ebb for me. I start to struggle with eating and probably fail to drink enough either. And although the section itself is neither hard nor long, there is the knowledge of another 14 miles to come after the last checkpoint.
My wonderful B team have volunteered to meet me again at Blaven, even though it is now very much the middle of the night, and I am so grateful, for the moral support as much as anything. I have soup and tea, take more paracetamol for my shoulder but immediately it all comes back up, possibly on my friend’s shoes. They remain utterly cheerful and unphased, help me into warmer clothes and generally act like the wonderful parents they are — their small girls conked out in the back seat all this time. Second time lucky — and more cautious — refuelled with ginger anti-nausea drink, we gather a little survivor team — Jimmy and I, Katie, suffering with blisters and Lee, who’s been fighting the quitting demons and needs some company to get him over the hump.
Blaven-Broadford, 14 miles, 670m ascent. Always great to feel you are on the last section and again I have recce-ed some of it and know the path is good. A section of tarmac around Torrin and Kilbride then a well-made stony track down to Suisnish. We pair and re-pair as we flag and sort-of-surge our way along here. I put on all my clothes (except the emergency ones). There’s a moment when all four of us are on our knees or nearly, sore backs, sore feet, me throwing up, a sorry crew. But we brace ourselves, wander a bit then find the right path and eventually round the headland. Already the first streaks of light are in the sky to the east and my yearning to lie down and sleep slips away even before the darkness lifts. Having got lost around Boreraig a couple of years ago I’m determined to find the right path and stick with it, much cheered by little red marker flags of confirmation.
At this point Jimmy, who thanks to the wonders of technology is live tracking us and everyone else, says we can finish under 24 hours if we get a shift on, and we start power-hiking up the gradual but endless hill with new determination. Lee had dropped back a mile or two earlier and now Katie is also left behind: we are on a sub-24 mission. For the first time in hours we start properly running. I haven’t eaten for a while but I keep sipping the drinks and that finishing buzz is enough to keep me going. There is no sign of Broadford when we finally start descending but the track is good and skirts the gentle contour of the hill — we can do this. My watch has run out of power — should have switched off all the bells and whistles — but Jimmy has his eyes on the prize. 35 minutes! Then, 5 minutes later — 5 minutes! I’m not sure our mental maths is the sharpest at this point. Our shambling run turns into a hectic scurry as we reach the early morning streets of Broadford and head to the Village Hall. The last slight uphill to the finish line nearly finishes me but we make it with five minutes to spare.
A cup of tea, wipe off the worst of the grime and I unroll my sleeping bag in the gym. I lie down — I will never sleep, too cold, floor too hard — and wake up hours later to hear cheering outside for the last finisher. A suitably eccentric prizegiving, cheers for Jeremy the new record-holder and that’s it, another ultra done. 75 miles in 24 hours, barely sick, 2nd lady (two hours behind Emma). Amazing views. Great weather conditions. Lovely people. It’s been a long time coming but so well worth it. Thanks to the one man race band, Jeff Smith, all the marshals, photo takers and all the amazing support crews.
