The Lowe Alpine Mountain Marathon is run over two days. This year we found out on Thursday that it was to be based just south of Ullapool.

For the uninitiated the LAMM is like orienteering on a big scale. Our Saturday course was 24k long with 1400m of ascent, with Sunday over 22k and 900m. To make things interesting the Saturday camp is situated in the middle of nowhere and you have to carry your full weekend kit on your back. After cutting all the labels off my gear my sack this year weighed 4.3 kg (without water).

This was to be the sixth time that Alasdair and I had run the LAMM. In total there were about 450 pairs running in six different categories. As before Alasdair and I ran in the C course.

I had been injured for most of March and April and knew I had not put in enough time on feet training.

Saturday started early with a bagpiper marching through the campsite at 5.30 am. After cramming in as much breakfast as possible, we boarded a bus, which took us down the road, where we were dumped at the side of the road.

You only know where you will be going once you cross the start line, when you are handed the list of control points you have to visit. You make up your own route, aiming for the line of least resistance. Runners go off in 5 minute intervals.

Within minutes of the start we were wading through a river up to our knees. This year the Saturday route took us over one Munro (Seana Bhraigh). The weather and visibility on the Saturday were really good. The ground was so rough, that there was very little running done, lots of hands on knees and panting. We seemed to be overtaking a lot of teams, and being overtaken only by a few. The descent off Seana Bhraigh was mega rough, over lots of unstable boulders. For once we didn’t make any navigation wobblers.

We got to the over night camp in a little over 5 hours and 20 minutes. We then set up our tent and set about eating and drinking our various dried soups and meals. When the results were posted we were in 11^th place (out of 120 odd in the C course)

The Saturday night camp is always a spectacle. One thousand runners camping in some remote highland glen. Good to wander about and chat away to people. That is until the rain started. Even worse when I was hit with a severe dose of cramps in my legs. Not nice in the confines of a wee tent.

For once there was no piper on the Sunday morning, just Martin on his megaphone at 5am! This year the organisers had brought in some portaloos, so we missed out on the normal joys of the slit trenches.

Once again we were in the chasing start, where the top placed runners are given numbers and set off in order. We were C11 and were set off at 7.08am, (under skies of blue). Within 35 minutes we had passed C8. The ground on the Sunday was unrelenting bog. Maybe that favoured the old men, as soon we caught C10 and C9. After 3 hours however, my leg cramps came back and I started doing my best Douglas Badder impersonation, trying to keep my legs straight to avoid them cramping up. We knew that somewhere the others were overtaking us. Somehow we kept going and as we came crashing through a wood, we stumbled upon the C5 boys. A race to the end ensued. We got past them only to be outsprinted to the line.

We finished Sunday in 4 hours and 34 minutes, in a very respectable tenth place. This equalled our place last year. Last year we were chuffed. This year we knew we could have done better. More training needed for next year!