By Ben A. Neiburger, Attorney, Generation Law
This post is the third and last installment in a series. Click here to read Part 1 of my Celtman! adventure, and here to read Part 2.
The Run
Transition 2 (“T2” bike to run) was in a grass field with a tarpaulin in the middle (rain shelter) and two porta potties. The athlete supports parked their cars in a cordoned off section of the field. Once they spotted their athletes, they moved gear from their car to the tarp, where the athletes changed from wet bike gear into less wet running gear.
The long bike ride and rain disoriented me. I was mumbling and not thinking intelligibly. The only thing in my mind (other than how quickly I could get to the porta potty — which was out of toilet paper — but I had brought some with me, a win!), was whether I should quit. The bike was okay, but I was near the cut off time, and I couldn’t imagine a hiking marathon in the chilly rain. I started a hypothermic shiver. My mind shut down. Levi asked what he could do or bring, so I asked for a few minutes to put my thoughts together enough to decide. I put a handful of gummy bears in my mouth. The heavens continued to release their downpour. Under the tarp (a race marshal came by to push up the tarp to let all the water drain in large torrents), I considered my options as I shivered. I remembered how much fun hypothermia is from my Norseman race. The situation did not look promising. Next to me were two Scottish racers, my soon to be new friend, Lorna, and another guy — he was half naked trying to change into wet running gear. Lorna was dressing for what looked like a winter run. Since I was already there, and wet, I decided I would give the run a try. I asked Levi to stay nearby in the car in case I wanted to bail after the run started. Transition took over 20 minutes for me. That’s a long time in a race.
During our course reconnaissance, we tried to find the run course. There were no markings, no information of exactly where it was. We barely knew where T2 was. I found out why after lacing up my trail shoes, shorts, running shirt, waterproof jacket, running cap, hydration vest with 7 hours of gels, a bag of dry socks, blister kit, and gloves. I also brought bug spray with me, but why would you ever want to put that stuff on while it’s raining?
The “run out” signs directed the athletes to the edge of a meadow. From the edge of the meadow, the path winded into the woods. I followed Lorna’s cheery blue form. She seemed to be eager about running. I was just hoping my body movement would warm me up and I wouldn’t twist an ankle on anything. Luckily, Lorna was running at my “training pace”. This was a 13 minute per mile pace with walking breaks. I could almost go that fast. We ventured into the woods as the rain lessened to a drizzle.
By this time, I had screwed up the timekeeping on my sport’s watch. I had pressed too many buttons and the “triathlon” timing function was already off (according to the watch I entered transition four hours ago and have been running since then). I stopped the watch “workout” and started another timer for just a run. I set the run function to “auto stop,” so when I would stop as stoplights when running back home, I wouldn’t have to press the pause button. However, when you slow to a walk or stop, it stops. The watch timer is important for several reasons. If you are trying to run a specific pace, it gives you that feedback. If you want to know the distance you traveled, it tells you. If you want to know how much time goes by since you plan to eat a gel every 30 minutes, it tells you, unless auto stop is on AND YOU HAVE TO “RUN” THROUGH A BOG.
A BOG.
I’ve read about bogs. Archeologists find preserved ancient remains in bogs. Objects vanish forever in bogs, never to resurface. They make whisky from stuff found in bogs. I didn’t realize racecourses passed through bogs. After a rainstorm. In Scotland.
F*ck me.
The run course followed a river towards Torridon Village. The boggy side. It’s not quite like the mud you find in the United States. It’s this mucky, loamy, flotsam that seems it would suck you down to the center of the earth, but somehow loosens its grip to let you sink your feet in again. As we entered the bog, the path got muddier and muddier. I tried not to get my feet wet by hopping from one pile of vegetation to another. After a short while, that became impossible. In addition, I did not want wet feet for the remainder of the marathon. Fail. And then the loamy mud got deeper. Path weaved through sheep pastures. We opened and closed gravity gates between the pastures. The muck got worse. In a race. Really? Across gurgling, fast-flowing streams. You could jump over the first one. But then they grew too wide, forcing you to walk through them without falling. Discovering the tricky traverse to be an excellent method to clean off boggy loam from your shoes.
The forest sections had unclear paths. I tried to stay away from the vegetation because of the ticks the race organizers said were out there in force. Then Scottish Highland Midges attacked. That’s where I questioned my decision to not apply bug spray. According to the Internet, midges are biting flies much smaller than mosquitos. I could have told you that without searching. They are found in the Highlands of Scotland because they like to lay their eggs in wet soil. Fantastic. All the damp moss and rushes in the Highlands, therefore, makes it a paradise for midge egg-laying. Helpful fact. Allegedly, only half of them bite—male midges prefer chilling and eating not humans – but the females need the protein in your blood to help grow her eggs. And that’s where athletes crossing bogs slowly come in. After the race, I had a million bites on my lower legs.
The vegetation closed in as the loam stuck to your body. There was no escape. Oh yeah, I had brought extra socks with me to make sure my feet stayed dry. LOL. I even took a video of my predicament and texted that to Coach Liz so she could see what I was going through.
“Are we having fun yet?” She replied. Ummm “No.”
Near the top of an 800 foot climb on a gravel road. The sun came out for just a little bit.
The mile or more of bog running ended, and the course changed into rocky paths and then a gravel road. Some people ran past me. I attempted to match their pace, but could only manage a feeble shuffle. Then the gravel road climbed. Steeply. And the rain started again. And the road climbed more. Two miles and 800 feet of elevation gain. My lower back complained (and didn’t stop screaming at me for a week). Hiking pace slowed. At the top of the hill, it stopped raining. If only it signaled a deliverance.
T2A – End of my race. I was only 45 minutes late for the cut off.
All in all, I shuffled for 10 miles over various surfaces, none worse than the trek across the bog. I emerged from the hills onto the road to Torridon. Levi waited patiently for me there. We were still a mile from T2A. The time was 6:08pm. The 13-hour cut off for continuing the race after T2A expired 8 minutes ago. Oh well. It was probably for the best. I didn’t have to think about quitting. I didn’t have to walk, shuffle, run for 16 more miles (think, 6 to 8 more hours), and risk Levi getting sicker.
My race was over.
The Aftermath and Continuation of Rental Car Tire Hell
We walked a couple of miles back to the car. To turn in the GPS and wrist tracker, we drove past the athletes finishing their last 10k to Torridon hall. We saw athletes coming off of the mountain. They were running, after that mountain climb, fast. I watched them in awe. I wondered what I needed to do to perform as well as them (probably lose weight, stop drinking and train more).
Little did I suspect that my gauntlet in the Scottish Highlands wasn’t quite over. After finishing the buffet at Torridon Hall, we made the hour drive back to the Airbnb in Gairloch in the dimming daylight. Levi was being extra careful driving on the one-track road so he wouldn’t run over other exhausted finishing athletes, some running straight in the roadway and others going not too steady. We got back to the Airbnb around 9pm, had some snacks, and went to bed. We slept in, relaxed and watched movies all day Sunday (I didn’t want to do another two hours round trip to the race headquarters for the awards ceremony—I didn’t finish the race so no need to spend that amount of time and effort to see awards and not get a t-shirt (you get a race t-shirt only if you finish the race).
On Monday, the children drove the second rental car back to Glasgow to continue their summer adventure in other cities. Levi wanted to leave at 8am for the five-hour drive to catch his girlfriend at the airport as she arrived in the country. Barbara and I were eager to speak with the garage about collecting our car and its two new tires that afternoon, in order to head to the Isle of Skye. The only catch is biking for an hour to cover 13 mountainous miles to the garage. Taxi services and Uber drivers are nonexistent in the remote Highlands. Besides walking, the only option is going to town and talking to people until finding a ride north.
We called the garage at midday, eager to learn when the car would be ready. The garage said they needed to order the tires from Inverness, and it would not arrive until 2pm the next day, Tuesday. This meant we would miss one and a half days on the beautiful isle. We then spoke with the rental counter in Glasgow (you can get telephone numbers of personnel when you really have problems) to discuss our options. They could call “recovery” to come pick us up and deliver us somewhere. To reach Inverness, a 90-minute drive in the opposite direction, we might consider getting a new car. Alternatively, we could explore Skye, but I’m unsure how we would manage without a car. Perhaps we could take the train with our heavy triathlon race luggage. LOL. We could also call a taxi service to pick up us and our mountain of luggage and deliver us to the airport in Inverness and Avis would pay for it. Online, the earliest pick up was at 8:45pm with a fee of £220. We called the garage twice after that to understand our options with them better, including hiring one of their drivers to get us somewhere. But he wasn’t working and, “We already ordered the tires.” Barbara and I talked and agreed that a one-day delay isn’t catastrophic. Better than a late-night delivery. We walked the 1.5 miles to our *new* favorite haunt, the Millcroft Hotel, to drown our sorrowful delay in pornstar martinis and local single malt Scotch Whiskey.
The next morning, I was up early doing laundry and noticed that Levi left my 10-year-old wetsuit in transition an hour’s drive away (I need a new wetsuit anyway, right?) and stowing triathlon gear in large bags. To burn some time, I took a long walk to Gairloch Harbor and the estate across the street, searching for an advertised waterfall that eluded me. Barbara completed her packing. We were told by the garage that the tire was expected at 2pm. We both crossed our fingers and prayed for the tires to come. I called the Garage and spoke with Mary, who was so nice and helpful. She said the tires arrived and they’ll start putting them on the car now. I confirmed that nobody could bring the car to me (30 min drive each way), so I’d have to bike there. As I prepared the bike, I wondered if my leg muscles would still respond to neuronal commands and if my extremely sore lower back would force me to stop on the side of the road. As an afterthought, I also packed rain gear. I am starting to learn that rain is bound to happen on Scotland’s western coast, regardless of the weather report.
My legs worked, and I retraced the western edge of the Celtman bike course. Ahead, I knew there was 1000 feet of vertical climbing and 13 miles between me and deliverance. I set my bike computer to track mileage and vertical climb to help me pass away the distance and time. 30 minutes later, of course, it rained. Then the wind picked up. It’s the Highlands. At least I didn’t get a flat on the bike. I hoped this would be my final post-Ironman “shake out” mountain ride after a mountainous race. After an hour, I arrived at the village of Aultbea, just a little wet.
I stopped two women walking their dog on the road and asked where the garage was. One of them responded, “I’m not telling you” with that wry Scottish smile that means they are messing with you, just because. Then, after laughing, she pointed down the street, and I found the shop. It was an auto repair operation with a bunch of tow trucks parked in the lot. Just as I pulled up, a technician opened the door after parking my rental car and handed me the keys. Now we have service. It made my aching back feel much better.
I set my bike against a bench and walked into the reception office. And there was Mary, with the appearance of a loving grandmother in her 70s, who promptly offered me coffee.
“Did I need any water?”
“No, ma’am, I have a water bottle on the bike.”
“Well, step over there. You’re dripping wet. Give me a few minutes.”
£575 later, I had the car and two new tires on the passenger side. Sweet!
I texted Barbara and carefully drove back.
Barbara had everything of hers packed when I got back. I did some quick recovery eating, found dry clothes, packed the rest of my belongings and we were ready to go to the Isle of Skye, only 30 hours later than we wanted.
I asked Barbara to drive, so we wouldn’t have a repeat of me hitting a pothole. We left Gairloch behind for what we thought was the last time as we started the next leg of our journey. Three miles later, Barbara hit a something on the edge of the road. The tire, seated on the car rim for a mere two hours, flatted. At least we only had one flat this time.
Other than my hyperventilation, the car was completely silent. We looked at each other in disbelief. How could this happen again? We were going slow.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. And no cell service.
Dead tire #3. Only on the wheel rim for two hours.
Barbara said she no longer cared about tires. She was driving back to Gairloch to park the car, even if she ground the rim down to the axle. She would park the car at the service station there. We couldn’t believe this. When our cell signal returned, we called Glasgow Avis and asked for help. Someone answered immediately and said we needed to call the “recovery number” and the contracted service would handle things. We called them. The operator said someone would have to come out to us to look at the tire and advise us on our options. We told him that this is exactly what happened Friday night, they had one contractor in the area, we just visited them two and a half hours ago, and they don’t have any tires for us because we used the last two they ordered.
“I’m sorry, sir, this is what we need to do under our rules. Someone will call you soon.”
Then we discovered the hotel next to the service station. We each ordered two double pink gins.
Having a live number for the Glasgow Avis counter was comforting. Today, Greg was on duty. Bless you Greg. He answered the phone each time I called and helped discuss options. We decided that once we got the tire service to look at the tire to see if it could be fixed (ha! It was almost off the rim. Fix that up!), we would get the car towed somewhere, get a new car, and a hotel room for the night.
The hotel that served us our gin was also fully booked for dinner. We were going to be hangry soon. After a good amount of alcohol and a game of Connect Four (we were in the hotel lounge room with games), my phone rang. “Hiya Ben, this is Mary, which tire is it?” Mary! Beautiful, kind, understanding Mary.
“Mary, please have someone send a flatbed to take us and the car to Inverness. Can you do that? And I wasn’t driving this time, passenger front tire.”
“Sure, Ben. Our flatbed driver is 45 miles away and can be there just before 8pm.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mary.”
“Ben, you are welcome. Make certain there is a car for you in Inverness. Double check for me, will you?”
I had Greg on the phone 30 seconds later. He said that the Inverness airport rental counter was open until 10:30pm and he would email them to see if they had any cars for us. He couldn’t guarantee availability, but would let us know.
We walked to find a dinner spot before the flat bed came. We found comfort food at the Myrtle Bank Hotel, one half mile down the road, and awaited our deliverance from the Highlands.
Midway through my fish and chips, Mary called to say the driver was close to the car, waiting for me. I left my uneaten chips and started hobbling towards the door. The bike ride aggravated my lower back and the last thing it was going to permit was a run or a jog. So, hobble it was. I found our flatbed driver, Bill, waiting at the hotel. I hopped in the truck with him, and he loaded up the Volvo x60 and its tough tires ready to take us to Inverness. We left the service station and headed towards Myrtle Bank to pick up a slow walking Barbara.
Bill was a nice but quiet guy in his 60s. He told us he was a fisherman. His boat was being serviced, and he drove for the recovery service part time. He looked at his watch: 8:35pm. He asked when the AVIS Inverness desk closed. I told him. Inverness was 1:45 hours away. He pressed the accelerator on the flat bed, deftly navigating around the potholes on the single track.
We called Greg. Greg said he did not get a reply from the email to his colleague in Inverness, but he would let me know when he heard something.
“Don’t you have a phone number for them? Don’t they give you guys phones to speak with each other?”
“No, we don’t Ben. Email is the best I got. But I’ll be here until 11:30pm if I can help you.”
No phones? Really?
Barbara then got on her phone to work on booking a hotel in Inverness. I unwisely told her I thought I could drive to the Isle of Skye after we picked up the car. She gave me a look. I conceded she might be right. Bill and I then engaged in a bunch of meaningless small talk (with Bill gently tolerating my nervousness), because what else are you going to do as you learn that it’s possible to drive a fully loaded flatbed truck down windy rural roads at 60mph and not die?
He even passed a car moving too slowly. I took a deep breath and called Greg for an update. No response. Oh well, maybe AVIS could pick up their broken car from the middle of their terminal and we’ll sort it out in the morning.
Bill gets us to the airport at 10:15pm.
God Bless Bill.
I find the AVIS counter in the empty dark terminal and there is a lady there. I say, “Hi. I have your car. It’s broken and I need a new one. Where should the flat bed drop the car with three working tires?”
She smiles at me, looks up my contract number, sees that I have the £41 per day maximum insurance, and says, “Follow me.”
We go out to the parking lot as she directs Bill where to dump the Volvo. Then she says, “Well, I have another Volvo for you, but it’s a different color. Is that okay?”
She looks at the car after we give Bill farewell hugs and says, “I’ve seen worse. Every day, we see cars coming in with damage. The Highlands roads are rough on cars.”
I transferred our luggage from one Volvo to the other, extra thankful that Barbara booked a hotel nearby, admitting to her again that she was right. Then she lets loose a river of “stress is over” tears.
I check the settings on the Volvo to make sure the wireless charger works for our phones. As I go through various settings menus, I come across an “off-road” suspension mode.
Damn. If I only had known.
Summing It All Up
Wetsuit strangle marks. It healed in a mere 10 days!
Despite our car trauma and not being able to finish the Celtman course, this race was a win for me in many ways. I pushed myself to the limit but didn’t succeed. Considering my age (55), body composition (20% + fat mass — I ain’t one of those fast skinny athletes no matter how much I think about passing on that next scotch), time I have to train while running my business, and keeping social and family connections vibrant and alive, I think this is an acceptable result.
I finished healthy and uninjured!
(I walked funny for two days, have 100s of midge bites on my legs, and have a weird friction burn around my entire neck from the wetsuit and warming vest — which has never happened before.).
My son didn’t get sick!
Aftermath of the Biting Midge attack in the bog.
We had a family trip to Scotland with our adult children (no whining!).
I met fantastic people and got to experience one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world.
Sometimes you stretch yourself too much. Sometimes the course beats you despite your best efforts. Sometimes it takes four days to get replacement tires for your rental car when you are in a remote location.
Celtman is a fantastically hard course. I will give it a 10 out 10 for hard. The race is well run with ample doses of Scottish humor. Although I don’t know if this is something I want to do again, I highly recommend it to someone with more athletic ability than I. Maybe I would have finished the race if there was no bog. Probably. I’ve finished 3 of the 10 hardest triathlons out there and only failed once, but what an epic day.
The End!
To click here to see absolutely stunning photos from the race by Ariel Wojciechowski.
