Over a Mountain and Under the Wire

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a Scottish Canadian returns to his childhood home to conquer a 900-year-old race.

In January 2013, Keith Anderson committed himself to achieving his decade-long dream of competing in the hill race at Scotland’s world famous Braemar Gathering. A native of this little Scottish town, Anderson immigrated in 1967, settling in southern Ontario.

The Braemar Gathering, arguably Scotland’s biggest and best highland games, has taken place on the first Saturday in September for over 900 years.    A crowd of about 15,000 spectators, including King Charles, regularly attend. Events test the strength and skill of each competitor and the gruelling 5.3 K run up Mount Morrone is the marquee event. Runners are given 45 minutes to reach the summit and return to the games park 859 m below.

It was more than just an ocean that separated Anderson from his goal. The 54-year-old Brantford, Ontario resident was out of shape and living in a pancake-flat neighbourhood. He was unsure how to train for a hill race. Initially, he focused on getting fit by alternating between 5K runs and 15K bike rides, gradually increasing those distances. By April he’d dropped 10 lbs.  and was ready to take it up a notch. He began practicing uphill on the Tew’s Falls portion of the Bruce Trail near Dundas, Ontario and targeted training in the rain to prepare for Scottish weather.

By the time Anderson boarded the plane he’d lost 18 lbs. and could complete a 10K in 45 minutes.

Arriving a week early to acclimatize, his first trial run took 46 minutes. A third of the way up, he was exhausted and walked to the summit. Two days later, he returned to the base of the hill and tackled the ascent at a fast pace. When he looked at his watch after roaring back down, he’d finished in exactly 45:00. There would be no room for error on race day.

As Anderson stood on the start line, he marvelled at the unusually bright and sunny morning. The starter’s pistol sounded and he jostled his way to the front of the pack as they completed their obligatory lap of the park before attempting the hill. As they fanned out across a field on their way to Mount Morrone, the seasoned Scottish hill runners quickly passed him.

There are two ways to reach Morrone, the regular footpath he’d taken in the trial runs, and an open field to the left. On impulse, he followed the front runners left. Three steps later, his feet sank deep into a bog. “It took all my energy just to lift my legs,” says Anderson. He floundered until reaching the deer gate where the steep ascent begins.

Exhausted and still climbing after 20 minutes, he saw the leaders coming down the mountain on his left. The winds were so strong that he had to crawl on all fours just to not blow over and roll back down the mountain. It was then that he looked down and saw the panoramic view of the village of his birth. A voice broke his trance-like state. “Good effort,” a race marshal said, leaning down to slip a rubber band on Anderson’s wrist, symbolizing that he’d made it to the summit. Anderson stood up and headed back down.

There’s no trail down the mountain. Runners must leap and bound their way through the thick purple heather. Anderson found new life in his legs, picking up his pace and passing several runners, feeding off the exhilaration of the chase.

A third of the way down, his carefree descent got to him and he slipped on a boggy patch and fell face down into the mud. He shot to his feet and, without wiping off the muck, found his rhythm once again.

As the terrain levelled off, he couldn’t hear the crowd at the finish line. “There was no one else in sight and I thought, “I didn’t make it in time,’” says Anderson. He decided to keep pushing anyway. When the deer gate appeared in view he could hear the sound of bagpipes, then cheers drifted through the forest, lifting his spirits. Anderson began to wildly sprint across the last open field and back onto the track for the final lap. He looked up, hoping to see a finish line, but in the straightaway there was no clear end, so Anderson ran as hard as he could towards two kilted men with stopwatches. As he reached them, he took his last steps and collapsed on the track at their feet.

65 runners entered the race, 54 of them completed it. With a time of 44:55, Keith Anderson was the last to cross the finish line. Coming in last place never felt so good.

The First Snow

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Even though I’ve survived 50 Canadian winters, the first snow of the season always catches me off guard. This winter was no exception.

We woke to find our world wrapped in a heavy white blanket. My two-year-old son Lucas is mesmerized and wants to make a snowman. But it’s a workday and we’re already running late.

Wrestling a squirmy toddler into a snowsuit is like trying to put pajamas on a harp seal. I pull on his snow pants, coat, mittens, hat and boots while he shifts his toy Thomas the tank engine from hand to hand. When he’s finally dressed I go in search of winter gear for myself. I can’t find two gloves that match but decide to forsake fashion for frostbite.

We’re inches from the front door when Lucas looks up at me and says, “Money, I have a pooty in my bun.”

I grapple with a moral dilemma. Do I drop him at daycare pretending to be unaware of the situation, or change him now and be late for work? The former could knock me out of the running for Windy Woods Daycare Mother of the year. I strip him down and start over from scratch.

Once I’ve fastened Lucas in his car seat I need to deal with the 10 inches of snow covering the car.   When I open the driver’s side door an avalanche of the white stuff drops from the car’s roof onto the front seat. I try to brush it all off but inevitably miss some and end up sitting in it. It feels cold against my skin and makes me look like I’ve peed my pants.

A quick scan of the trunk reveals that all snow brushes have been replaced with lawn chairs and beach blankets. I shut off the engine and search the garage to find absolutely everything but the aforementioned instruments. It occurs to me that some people can actually store entire vehicles in their garage, thereby reducing the need to reclaim them from the elements on mornings such as this. In desperation I grab the giant spatula that hangs on the wall with the barbeque utensils.

I start scooping the snow off my Toyota like I’m flinging stacks of fluffy white pancakes from a super sized frying pan. The sound of metal on metal hurts my ears and I wonder if I’m also removing a layer or two of paint.

A neighbour walking his golden retriever down the street takes in the scene and says, “That’s not really a snow brush you know.”

I give him my best “And I’m not really a moron” look but now he’s on a roll.

“Hey, I’d like mine well done,” he says and “Could I get one with extra barbeque sauce.”

I finally finish and we’re ready to go. A snowplough has deposited a ridge of snow rubble across the end of our driveway during the night. There isn’t time to shovel so I just take a run at it.

“Hang on Luke,” I say, and step on the gas like Beau Duke about to jump the General Lee over the biggest ditch in Hazard County. There’s a thump as we hit the drift followed by scraping as the car’s underbelly rubs over the frozen ice chunks. I’m relieved when I check the rear-view mirror and don’t see automotive entrails scattered across the snow.

I finally deliver Lucas safely to his daycare, where I give him a wistful hug and we go our separate ways. It’s only then that I realize my purse, that vital organ women wear on the outside of their bodies, is nowhere to be found. I turn the car around and head back home.

Remembering Jilly Cooper

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Remembering Jilly Cooper

It was with deepest sadness that I read of Jilly Cooper’s passing today.

For me Jilly was more than just a romance novelist; her raunchy, funny epic tomes helped get me through my tumultuous younger years. Her books were fun filled, roller coaster romps that I’d devour and then eagerly await her next novel. I cheered for Taggie to overcome dyslexia, cringed when Fen split her tight sharkskin breeches while show jumping commando and cried like a baby when Billy Lloyd Fox shuffled off this mortal coil.

Jilly’s books were meticulously researched. Her novels give readers an in-depth knowledge of show jumping, football clubs, orchestras, the British school system, art dealers, polo, independent television franchises, and multiple dog breeds.

Goodbye Jilly, you will live on in my heart and on my bookshelves forever.

So long and thanks for all the bonking.

My battered 37 year old copy of Riders.

Book Review: How Hard Can It Be? – Allison Pearson

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I was afraid to read this book.

“I Don’t Know How She Does It” is one of my all time favourite books, with Kate Reddy as my super heroine. That being said, I didn’t want to read anything that might desecrate the sanctity of Pearson’s first novel.

My fears, as it turned out, were completely unfounded.

Age may have eroded Kate’s memory banks, but her razor sharp wit has been honed to scalpel precision. I laughed and cried, but mostly, I empathized.

As a 56-year-old card carrying member of the sandwich generation, I’m well versed in the trials and tribulations of the menopausal mama. Juggling demanding kids, jobs, parents and assorted dementia inflicted family members while enduring sleep deprivation and hot flashes isn’t an easy concept to convey to readers, but Pearson nails it.

I don’t know how she does it, but she’s done it again.