An hour into the deepest sleep of my life I am urgently shaken awake… “Come on Olly, it’s time to go”. It takes a few seconds to get my bearings, then I start to giggle with the adrenaline. Jane is in labour, and from past experience this means our baby will be here quicker than a cyclist on steroids.

It is 4am Thursday 9th September 2004, and here I am snatching a few hours sleep after a full day at work and a very late night dropping cars, bikes and food off across half of Scotland. “Come on Olly, it’s time to go”. It takes a few seconds to get my bearings, then I start to giggle with the adrenaline. Chris Davies, Nick Wallis, Phil Bent and I are about to launch into the inky blackness, on our first few steps up Ben Nevis. My body instinctively knows it is going to be a long day…

Our plan is to complete all of the 4,000’ mountains in Scotland in a day, which will require 31 miles and 13,000’ ascent of running in the Ben Nevis and Cairngorm mountains, linked via 61 miles of cycling. We are aiming to follow the route taken by the official Scottish 4,000-ers duathlon (i.e. west-east). The only minor snag is we’ve missed the start of the race by 15 months, so today we’ll be doing it by ourselves and self-supported. “But hey – how hard can this thing be?” Nick chortles as we leave the bunkbarn.

We trot up the Ben as keen as dogs released from kennels. There is no danger of breaking any records today, but it feels so good to be out here, to be running, to be alive, with a million stars twinkling overhead. We also have the smug satisfaction knowing that however tough it gets today, it is still going to be better than a day in the office, which is where we all should have been had it not been for this hastily arranged last-minute mission.

The Ben passes relatively easily, with the most stunning dawn revealing itself slowly near the summit in majestic oranges, reds and yellows. On the summit itself are two German tourists, one of whom is lying motionless and mute across the apex of the shelter’s roof, looking like he’s just landed there in some tragic parachute failure. Phil’s suggestion seemed a bit more plausible: “maybe he died in a blizzard, and he was deposited there when the snows melted in the spring?” Either way the dawn is so captivating that both groups understand exactly why the others have hiked through the night to be there. Encouragingly, the dawn looks like it is indeed turning into the cloudless wall-to-wall sunshine that was forecast.

We pick our way along the jagged and rocky Carn Mor Dearg arete, looking back to see the imposing north face of the Ben rising up 1,000’ from the valley. It all looks so benign in summer, and it is hard to correlate this scene with winter climbing trips in whiteouts so complete that you rope up on flat sections in case you walk off a cliff.

Beyond Carn Mor Dearg we dip down before contouring up a long steep hillside to the top of Aonach Beag. The ground from here to Aonach Mor is like the most perfect grassy Lakeland fells, and it is a real joy to run. On our way down to the Nevis Ski range we run alongside the ski-tows and then much to my excitement we run down the mountain bike trail. Even mad-for-it Chris (Mr.Mountain-bike) is having audible palpitations at the size of the drop-offs, and we both figure it’d take cajones the size of grapefruit to ride this particular puppy. It is most certainly not built for your standard, faint-hearted non-grapefruit endowed male.

A quick change of clothes and a wedge of sandwiches and we are off on the bikes, rolling effortlessly over smooth tarmac, with the sun on our faces. The road ahead is quiet, giving us plenty of time to appreciate just how beautiful the A86 is when you are not in a car, with Lochs and peaks and autumnal trees rolling past like a Hollywood cliché of Scotland.

Strong contractions had come out of nowhere, and from past experience we knew we had to get our skates on as the baby would be here in a matter of minutes (our last baby took just 45 minutes). We hurriedly arrange for our friend Sarah to come and look after the sleeping kids whilst we head to the hospital. My gaze is pretty much glued to the white line in the road, focussing on not hitting any bumps, staying calm, reassuring Jane. In my mind’s eye I keep getting flashbacks to the cycle ride along the A86. Thank god we are doing this journey in a car. Jane hops out at the hospital, stopping to brace herself against a desk with the contractions. By the time I park the car and make it to her side things are well advanced. She isn’t going to make it to the delivery ward. 17 minutes after entering the hospital Jane gives birth on the floor of triage. Even the midwives looked stunned at the speed of it all.

Jane and I have four hours of paradise with our new baby girl, Isobel (Bella) Rose Stephenson, and as we stand to leave at 4.30am the midwife hesitates, apologises and then says sheepishly “I hate to mess you around, but let’s keep mum and baby here until the morning, just to be on the safe side. Your baby’s breathing is a little bit laboured, but there’s nothing to worry about. This is just a precaution”. I head home alone to take over from our babysitting friend Sarah. Ten minutes after leaving the hospital things take an abrupt turn.

We cycle as a team, taking it in turns at the front, which feels very efficient, and our average speed for the journey is over 17mph. This is road cycling paradise, made all the more pleasant with minimal mid-week traffic. Free from any race-day constraints, we even have the cheek to stop in the Newtonmore café for lunch – what luxury! We wobble out half an hour later looking like typical package-holiday Brits, with our tummies bulging over the top of our lycra cycling shorts and our skin a delicate shade of Torremolinos pink.

The race gods must have been aware of our lunch transgression, for shortly afterwards I get a puncture, and, more worryingly I start to feel very sick. The peddling from here to Glen Feshie is a formality, but my legs become leaden, and just about every light on my dashboard comes on. Mercifully Phil notices and he and the others heroically let me draft behind them for the last five miles, otherwise I’d probably still be out there cycling now. I suspect my relaxed attitude to cycle training (e.g. no ride further than 25 miles in the last 3 years) had not really helped matters.

The bike to run transition at Glen Feshie is fairly surreal. The others are chatting and laughing, but I still feel pretty shell-shocked. Food is a struggle, changing shoes is a challenge and my eyes are not seeing straight. Mosquitoes are everywhere but they seem like the least of my worries right now and I scarcely notice them.

Ten minutes after I leave the hospital Bella turns blue, her body limp and lifeless. “If 10 out of 10 means death, then your baby is at 8 out of 10 right now” the Consultant says. Jane is hurredly told to kiss her goodbye, and our baby is raced off to the most serious end of Intensive care.

By the time I make it back to hospital our baby is in a state of suspended animation in an incubator, with lines going into every one of her tiny limbs, and machines beeping and pinging and flashing like a garish amusement arcade. She has septicaemia, pneumonia, and possible meningitis too, all contracted within 4 hours of birth from a particularly virulent strain of group-b streptococcus bacteria. This is complete sensory overload and Jane and I look around the room utterly shell-shocked, reeling as if a nail-packed bomb has just exploded in our faces. Bella looks so small, so vulnerable, and we feel so completely powerless to do anything to help.

As we get ready to leave Glen Feshie I simply cannot allow myself to think of the miles ahead. Exactly 20 minutes after arrival we run out of the car park, heading for Cairn Toul; judging by the number of folds in the map it is going to be a long way.

Three hours later we reach the base of Cairn Toul’s final summit mound, all feeling the worse for wear. It has indeed been a long way, over tiring ground. I am still feeling out of sorts and distinctly sick. The last couple of hundred feet to the top looks like it will take an eternity, and for me this is pretty much the last straw. I pull out the map to look for retirement options.

Phil is having similar thoughts. With the map spread in front of us the reality of our situation slowly begins to sink in… we are now in one of the remotest spots in the UK, and even the easiest route out of here will involve another ~4 hours of toil at our current speed. To compound matters my watch tells me I have 12 hours to make it back to Edinburgh to catch a dawn flight to London for work. Despite the despondency I figure that I won’t get another chance like this to finish the Scottish 4,000’s for a long, long time; summer is all but over and Jane is due to give birth in 3-4 weeks. It is one of those classic now or never moments.

In the end I decide to press on with Chris and Nick, while Phil opts for the low route back. To Phil’s credit he’s done really well to get this far, based on just 16 miles running in the previous 6 months (done in one single race!).

Activity eases the knot in my stomach a little, and I recover enough strength to catch myself enjoying the spectacular situations between Cairn Toul, Angel’s Peak and Braeriach. At times it feels like we are daredevils walking along the edge of an aeroplane’s wing, with precipitous views stretching for miles down into the Lairig Ghru, with it’s silver ribbon-like river glinting in the sunshine. We are high enough that our next summit, Ben Macdui, looks tantalisingly close – a Giant would stride across there in just one step from Braeriach – but for us lesser mortals it involves a bit more effort descending and re-ascending the best part of 2,000’. The dying rays of sunlight egg us on, and we are rewarded with a simply stunning dusk scene from the top of Ben Macdui, with a thread of pure gold spun across the horizon. Mountain days do not get any better than this.

We stop just long enough for me to be violently sick (Chris and Nick said it sounded like a jet plane!), and then all of a sudden the exhaustion and discomfort of the last 4-5 hours vanishes and I feel fantastic and absolutely bounding with energy. So next time you are feeling tired try being sick – it really works!! The route across the plateau feels like a breeze, and even in the dark with me navigating we manage to stay on course. Chris continues to bounce across the hillside in his effortless half-man, half-gazelle fashion, but Nick starts to drop behind in the last few hundred feet up Cairngorm. He is normally rock solid in the hills, always maintaining his humour to the last, and here he is silently sinking into his own world. Chris and I wait anxiously for him, and discover a pretty shattered looking Nick falling asleep on his feet, hallucinating. “I’m doing OK”, Nick says, “but this knee-deep, fluorescent purple grass is a bit unusual”. With a little encouragement he soon returns to normal, and we pass swiftly over the top of our final summit in pitch black.

Finally we make it back to finish in the Cairngorm ski car park, feeling like it is on the edge of what we can manage mid week with no training. The race itself finishes with a 4-mile downhill ride to the Norwegian Stone at Glenmore Lodge, but our bikes are still in Glen Feshie so this is not an option (thankfully!). It has been a magnificent day out, with excellent company, and it’s fair to say I’ve never seen Scotland looking so beautiful.

It is now 11pm, we’ve been on the go almost continuously for 17.5 hours, and my work flight is only 6.5 hours away. We are all pretty shattered. The boys stop for dinner in Aviemore and Chris falls asleep half way through his meal; Nick is so tired he leaves his camera in the restaurant and loses his watch at the campsite. I shamefully ignore all sensible advice about driving while tired, and with a can of Red Bull inside me, drive home alone. A quick pit stop at home to wash and sleep for an hour, and then I am walking out of the front door on my way to the airport (it is now Friday 10th September). Much to my surprise Jane comes rushing out behind me. Initially I think she is being all romantic, but even Jane isn’t foolish enough to wake at 5.30am just to kiss me goodbye.

“ My waters have broken”, she says with impressive composure. It is all the more impressive when you consider how difficult it would have been for Jane a few hours earlier with me in the Cairngorms, or an hour later with me in London. For some reason work no longer seems so important, and I stay behind to take care of Jane and the kids. Her contractions do not start all day, and we collapse into bed at 10pm. Within minutes I am well into the deepest sleep of my life.

An hour later I am urgently shaken awake by Jane, and we race to the hospital.

The neonatal staff at the New Royal Infirmary work absolute miracles with Bella. After a few days she begins responding to the antibiotics, and eight days later Bella comes home 100% fit and healthy. We are happy beyond belief, and for the first time in my life I appreciate just how fragile small babies really are. Luckily they are also built pretty resiliently as well.

One thing’s for sure, the Scottish 4,000’s is a challenging and immensely rewarding day out. But it’s a small fraction of the effort required to give birth and to see your new-born so ill, and it’s certainly nothing like as rewarding as having a healthy baby girl.

Our sincerest thanks to all the neonatal staff at the New Royal Infirmary. We owe our daughter’s life to you.