In June 2006 something terrible happened: I fell into the world of the mountain marathon. Clutching my copy of "Feet in the Clouds" and still nursing injuries from my only outing of any note along the welsh 3000ers a month previously, I signed up for the Lowe Alpine Mountain Marathon.
Days later, myself and my buddy of too many comedy climbing adventures, Nick Williams, were staring down the barrel of 48 hours lumping far too much kit around the mountainous highlands of Sutherland. I had no idea that it was possible to drive three hours north of Inverness, let alone host a competition there.
Anyhow, we survived, and we loved it. The mountains, the exercise, the crap weather, the clean air and the spirit of the adventure and the competition, the most wholesome and good natured I have experienced for a while. A million miles from the rat race, this was an event that was more of a celebration of our surrounds than a further corporate sentence. There wasn't an RBS advertising logo in sight.
For the uninitiated, mountain marathons generally involve a two day event where at the start line you are given a map and a set of grid references for electronic checkpoints which you have to navigate between as quickly as possible and which lead you to an overnight camp. On day two you are given a new set of grid references which lead you back to the start/finish. In your pairs you have to carry your tent, sleeping bags, stove etc and as much food as you think your legs, or your soul, will require to get you round.
The problem with this joyous insight into a new world of escapism into the mountains of our fair isles was reading about the legends of the sport of fell running. Tales of Joss Naylor, Billy Bland and, of course, Bob Graham. The seed was sown...
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