My imagination was captured. I longed to be able to do this too. Romanticising, I conjured up images of myself as a gazelle, leaping effortlessly over tussock and bog, mile upon mile; or silently floating across the endless moors day after day like the Massai warriors in Out of Africa. Reality intrudes: I have never been athletic, and hadn’t run (even to catch a bus) since PE classes at school some thirty years ago. Imagine my horror, then, when I discovered this was a favoured leisure pursuit of my partner‘s.

You have to admire his technique

So I purchased a pair of walshes, and we went for a light walk in a hill... did we heck! It was Ben Cleuch, as I recall, in the Ochills. Two and a half hours we were out, and they were nearly my last. But there were brief glimpses of that gazelle in my mind. I was hooked.

Other hills have come and gone, fleeting memories of Ben Wyvis, Ben Chonzie, Schiehallion, Lochnagar, to name but a few. But it’s the Pentlands, just over the bypass, that we return to time and again. I joined Carnethy last spring, and for the first time in years found myself amongst folk who are decidedly not normal. Quite frankly, you’re all mad. A day out on the hill with Carnethy folk, is refreshingly absurd: grown men and women, dressed in almost nothing, in all weathers, hurling themselves down near vertical slopes, slithering through bogs, bounding across tussocks and disappearing down holes, and loving every minute of it. The enthusiasm is infectious. So much so that I found myself agreeing to participate in a hill race.

I had a month, plenty of time, I thought, to prepare myself for the Pentland Skyline: start with an easy one! I had mapped out, roughly, a training schedule: funny how things never go according to plan. Cursed as is my wont with injury, ill health and haywire hormones [it‘s your age dear!], with just one week to go I felt more unfit than ever.

Determined to continue, I sought advice from my hill running mentor, and fellow Carnethy Ladies’ Training Night attendee (no pandering to the mealy-mouthed-politically-correct here), that ‘Old Man of Carnethy’ - Bill Gould*. We scampered around the Braids and Blackford Hill in the gathering gloom and I made mental notes on the terrain of individual hills, equipment and supplies needed in the fast approaching event. I am ever astonished at the quantity of conversation that takes place on these evening runs. It is all I can do just to keep up, puffing and panting alongside companions who chatter gaily as if merely strolling down a street.

The countdown had started. With no work on the Wednesday, I resolved to rekkie the route in preparation for the race that Sunday. It was one of those heartbreakingly beautiful autumnal mornings, the light as delicate as the translucent skin on an old woman’s cheek. No excuse, then, not to proceed. I left the car at hillend at 0930 and decided to pace myself slowly over the first half a dozen or so hills. What I’m told is known as a ‘walk and run’.

Fortune smiled on me all the way to West Kip, then I suppose her face started to ache. Descending towards the Drove Road the cloud began to draw in, and as I left the familiar territory of the south side of the Pentlands the unknown hills on the north dissolved before my eyes. I found the track up Hare Hill ok, but at the summit had to exercise my newly burgeoning skills in hill navigation from there [Many thanks to Keith and the Carnethy Navigation Day!] across the horrendously heathery terrain of Black Hill, to Bell’s Hill and Harbour Hill. I gamely set my compass and hurtled determinedly into the mist.

Some time later... the wind had picked up and the mist turned to lashing rain. Am I the only person who has trouble with overtrousers? Mine just won’t stay up. What a sight it must have been: a middle aged woman trotting along, compass clutched in one hand, crutch of her overtrousers gripped in the other. As I ascended Capelaw I felt a little tired, but I was approaching familiar territory again so abandoned the use of compass and sodden overtrousers. Towards the summit of Allermuir the rain turned to hail, but it was only a few more minutes from there back down to Hillend and the shelter of my car. Cold, wet and exhausted, the rekkie had taken nearly 6 hours! I was going to have to work a lot harder on Sunday to reach our target of 4 to 4½ hours.

Greeted with wall to wall blue skies, I rose early. Barely a leaf fluttered on the enormous tree outside. A perfect day. I packed a light bumbag with the minimum of gear, joined up with Paula, my partner for the day [without whose encouragement I would never have been taking part in this race - or writing this article!], and at 1107 we were off. Such a relief to finally be racing, the build up had been such a stress. In the climb towards Allermuir we soon found ourselves to be near the back of the crowd, not a surprise as we are both 40+ veteran ladies class, and the testosterone at hillend had been overwhelming. The going was so much easier than on Wednesday, the company and weather both playing a large part in that. And such fun to slogg up a hill to be greeted by a friendly, and in many cases now familiar face, with offers of water and jelly babies.

By Turnhouse Hill the wind had picked up tremendously and all my efforts to fly downhill were foiled while we travelled southwest. But we reached the Drove Road easily within 2½ hours and I relaxed, feeling assured that, with the wind at our backs on the return journey, we would finish well within the qualifying time of 5 hours.

At Black Hill we tucked ourselves in behind some experienced veterans who found an excellent route to the top with a minimum of heather bashing and from there it was plain sailing. Past Caerketton and about to make the final descent, I glanced at my watch and informed Paula that we had 3 minutes to reach the carpark and make her deadline of 4½ hours. "Right! Leg it!" she yelled, and we belted down for all we were worth. About fifty metres to go I glanced at my watch again - damn, I thought, we’ve just missed it. But no, we were officially clocked in at 4h 30m, just milli-seconds between us, each receiving a bottle of beer for our pains.

I’ve supped my beer, and the adrenalin is seeping from my body. What a buzz! This stands as one of the best days out on a hill ever. For a lot of you folk out there the time we ran would be hopelessly slow, but as I see it it’s "nae bad fur an aul’ biddie", and I’m already looking forward to the next race.

*For those of you not in the know, and suffering confusion over this - Bill is an honorary lady.