Could things get any worse? Hmmm, well I suppose they could. How they could, I don’t know but I suppose they could.

I hate the drive from home to the motorway but once you’re there, it’s a lovely day out. Arriving at the venue which incidentally is in the middle of nowhere at the end of a minor road. Surrounded by the sort of hills that give Scotland its reputation, Chaplegill rises straight from ground level on a climb of 1,400 feet to its summit of 2,250 feet. Not the highest of hills but with the climb taking place in only 1.2km, it makes it possibly the most unrelenting slog on the calendar. A £2 entry fee makes a bit of a mockery of the races that charge 20 and a civilised 3pm start allows everyone to get there in time. It even meant that I missed the rugby – oh joy!

There’s no set route in this race and the rules are simple: get to the top, make sure the marshall has your race number, go round the cairn which is a tiny pile of stones that raises the height of the hill by no more than 6 inches, then get back to the finish without dying on the way.

44 of us set out with Brian Marshall, as usual, taking the lead. Not trusting my well known sense of direction, I stuck with the pack, even when I saw some of the ‘locals’ taking a totally different route. Oh how I wish I’d followed them, it’d have saved me about 200 yards. It’d also have brought Brian Marshall’s time down to below 20 mins had he done so too.

However, onwards and upwards. Things weren’t too bad for me and I was in a small group that included the girl who eventually became first lady. Disaster has a habit of returning when least expected. I haven’t suffered badly from calf cramp since the Kaim Hill race last year but return again it did, and with a vengeance. The groups that had taken different routes all came together about 250 yards from the top. I noticed that Ian McManus was within about 30 yards of me and I realised he’d taken the better route; however, when cramp hits, it hits. Both legs at once and I didn’t know which to grab first. I lay on the ground writhing in agony as I was passed by the rest of the field. Eventually, I was in the glorious position of last, having lost a good 4 to 5 minutes. As things eased off, I hobbled up to the top and round the miniature cairn. On the way down, I managed to pass 4 of the backmarkers, including Ian, but it was an ignominious finish.

Not only was this my worst performance in a race but salt was added to the wound by the race organiser who published the results showing me to be over 40 rather than over 50. It’s very nice to be considered younger but it doesn’t look good in the stats and I doubt if it was meant kindly in any case.

One of the strange things was that, as with the rest of the country, everywhere seemed to be waterlogged. However, Chaplegill itself was dry as a bone. Not only did I not get my feet wet, as I lay on the ground at the top of the hill and then at the bottom, I stayed dry. Maybe there is a god after all and he was just having a laugh!