Highland Fling or Highland Hobble? A Journey to Limp Glory
- Ben Watson
- Sep 25
- 5 min read
They say the West Highland Way is a scenic masterpiece. That’s exactly why I couldn’t sit out the Highland Fling race. It’s been on my bucket list ever since ultra marathons entered my life—a 53-mile trail of lochside, glens, hills, and questionable life choices.
The story starts not long after finishing the Castle to Castle 100-mile ultra marathon. I took a couple of weeks off to let the ageing body heal. My first long run back was a recce of the race route in reverse. It lasted all of 2.5 miles. One silly mistake—taking my eyes off the trail—and 88kgs of dead weight went straight down through a rolled ankle.
A few days later, after losing feeling in a couple of toes and a trip to A&E, I was told:“Do not run for 6–8 weeks.”“At all?! I have a race in 6 weeks.”“I highly recommend not doing it.”
Not what I wanted to hear. But I thought… if I decide I’m not doing the race, I’ll just sit and laze around. If I aim to be fit, then worst case—I’ll be fitter, faster.
Fast forward 6 weeks…
It’s 5 a.m. I’m standing in Milngavie with a smile, a race bib, and an ankle held together by hope, tape, sheer stubbornness, and a sprinkling of stupidity. I’d managed 29 miles total the week before, so it wasn’t like it was my first run back. I knew I could get to Balmaha, and worst case—I could withdraw if I was in serious pain.
What I completely underestimated was how shockingly shite your fitness can become with little training. The first 17 miles or so were great—paced well, steady, focused. Even a wee fella strumming songs on his guitar at 5:45 a.m. as we passed. Big shout out to him—he played ‘I’m on Fire’ when I requested Springsteen while staggering by.
The trouble kicked in at the bottom of Conic Hill. While it’s not the biggest of mountains, the lack of training—especially elevation—destroyed my hamstrings with cramp as I stumbled my way to the top. Even worse was coming down the other side, where perfectly good track has been replaced with ankle-breaking rock stairs. Like an old man, I shimmied down one tiny step at a time.
Once off the stone stairs, it was a nice cruise into the pitstop at Balmaha. That’s when the ankle pain started ramping up. I took a good 10 minutes at the pitstop sorting painkillers, trying to take on food—which I struggled with. I’d felt sick from around mile 5 and had struggled to eat throughout. Even worse was a horrible lingering thirst that wouldn’t disappear despite drinking litres.
Anyway, I was still moving. Another 3–4 miles went by, and that’s when the real lack of fitness caught up. At one point, Al—another runner from Newton Road Runners—was literally pushing me up a hill on the way to Rowardennan.
By Rowardennan, my legs were done. I was starting to feel unstable, and the only way to describe it was like they were hanging on by a loose thread. What I did have in my favour was an early start. The race organisers had kindly offered me the option of a 5 a.m. start instead of 6 a.m.—for those concerned about cut-offs. Between that and a decent first 15–17 miles, I’d banked a good chunk of time.
Rowardennan was the point of the main decision. If I was going to withdraw, I had to do it there. Otherwise, I’d have to get to Beinglas—beyond 40 miles—to be picked up, unless someone fancied sending a boat.
Now, let’s be honest—I should never have started this race. If I was coaching someone in the same position, I’d be giving them the risks and telling them not to do it. I wasn’t particularly fit enough either. But I know my strength in ultras is my ability to just keep moving. Whether that’s a walk, run, or crawl—I don’t give up unless I have no other option. Although I was sore, I was still moving. So I gave this race a crack.
The unfortunate thing about the injury was how much it took from the race. I’ve never been bothered about times, but it slowed me down—and worse, it stole my focus. I’ve looked at photos and can’t recall large parts of the race because I barely lifted my head from watching where my foot was going.
Rowardennan to Inversnaid was okay—a trek up onto a service track for 3-4miles. A few miles from the checkpoint, it started to get challenging underfoot. More and more tree roots, rocks, narrow gaps—but this was child’s play compared to the next section. I stopped at Inversnaid checkpoint to sort a wee blister developing on the side of my toe and tried to force food down my neck.
It was around mile 35 that I noticed I’d drunk about 4 litres of fluid and hadn’t gone to the toilet. A bit TMI, but in ultras—that’s not a good sign. A small orange and a bite of a slice of pizza later, I was off to take on the “tough” section of the race.
On reflection, it wasn’t that bad—because you couldn’t run any of it. I was down to a walk already, and I had no choice but to take my time and not get hurt. I walked through streams and rivers, scrambled up rocks, climbed dodgy wooden ladders, squeezed between boulders. It was savage. Six miles of nature’s Krypton Factor.
The sense of relief coming into Beinglas was unreal. Short-lived as shit—but unreal. I didn’t hang around long. I stomached a small can of Dr Pepper and off I went, under the false impression the rest would be easy. Turns out, of the remaining 12 miles, about 10 are uphill.
Luckily, I was caught at the last checkpoint by my club mate, Stu—a top, top guy and someone who looked exactly how I felt. We stumbled our way across the last 6–7 miles together, moaning at every incline all the way to the famous red carpet. For me, the best section of the race. Until the finish photos.
Like myself, Stu is a follicly challenged gent. The closing photos—with Stu smiling and me looking like an advert for a stroke campaign—look like a before-and-after side-by-side.
I crossed the finish line in just over 15 hours, looking like a man who’d wrestled a mountain and lost politely. My ankle was furious. My soul was triumphant—to the point it looked like it left my body 10 miles ago to celebrate.
But I did it. I flung myself across the West Highland Way, one hobble at a time. Would I do it again? Absolutely. I swore I wouldn’t at the finish line, but looking back… it’s as gutsy as it is stupid.
The Highland Fling is not just a race. It’s a rite of passage. A test of endurance, humour, and how many midges you can swallow before accepting your fate.
To anyone thinking of running it: do it. Tape your ankles, pack your snacks, and prepare to meet the best and worst parts of yourself somewhere between Balmaha and Tyndrum.
A massive thank you to everyone involved in the race. The Fling—alongside the Devil (run by the same brilliant crew)—is hands down one of the most friendly, inclusive, and caring events you can do. The organisers, volunteers, and support teams are nothing short of phenomenal.
And then there’s the runners. You line up alongside some truly incredible people. You hear their stories, their reasons for running, their inspirations—and it restores your faith in humanity. It’s not just a race; it’s a community.
One final shout-out to my club mates: Stu, Pete, Ross, Corey, Al, Neil, and Jonny. Not only are they cracking runners, but they’re top, top guys. Well done, fellas—you made the day even more memorable.
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