Scotland: Running the Highlands
“Sit down, mate. You’re not going anywhere.” A broad shouldered six-foot-something says, clenching my forearm and plopping me down like a runaway toddler. He’s head to toe in foul weather gear with a chest mounted walkie talkie. Turning his back to the wind and leaning forward so as to be heard, he presses a button: “This is Ridge to Base, over.” “This is Base, go ahead,” a voice responds back. “I’ve got a racer with no safety runner, over.” There is a long pause. “Hold until arrival,” the voice responds. Dark clouds full of wind and rain are circling like vultures. Tracing the ridge up towards the summit of Beinn Eighe, the third place runner and his pacer ascend through the mist and out of sight. Spinning on my heels like a top I scan franticly for Caroline, but there’s no sign of her. The race is named Celtman: a point to point swim through cold jellyfish infested waters of the Northern Atlantic, 125 miles of cycling through strong side winds with seven thousand feet o