No sleep till... Fort William – Running the West Highland Way Race
- Ben Watson
- 1 day ago
- 10 min read
They say “it takes a village to raise a child”. If that is true then the ultra running equivalent would be “it takes a village of enabling angels, all with a heart of gold to let a borderline sadist do crazy shit”.
In 2026, I am attempting to complete the Triple Crown. An unofficial legendary challenge which means completing three West Highland Way based races in a calendar year. They are The Devil o’ the Highlands, a 42 mile race from Tyndrum to Fort William (April); The West Highland Way Race, the whole 95miles of the famous route from Milngarvie to Fort William (June); and The Highland Fling, a 53mile race from Milngarvie to Tyndrum (August).
Doing any of these races is a tough gig. Doing them in the same year is really tough. Doing them in the same year and trying not to get injured, particularly for ol’ chocolate ankles here, is like trying to Riverdance safely across a minefield.
This past weekend, I took on the 2nd part of the challenge. The big wan! 95miles… (turned out to be 97.7 after a diversion or two) and 14000feet of elevation in less than 35 hours! Spoiler… I’ve one crown to go!
There are a few moments in life where you question your decision-making. Booking the West Highland Way Race was one of them. Not at the time, of course. At the time it felt like a perfectly reasonable, even character-building idea. It’s only later, somewhere around the 70-mile mark, that you start to wonder whether “character” is really worth this much pain.
For the uninitiated, the West Highland Way Race featuring hills, midges, more hills, and a persistent internal voice asking, “Why didn’t you just take up darts?”
The Start: Optimism Is a Powerful (and Misleading) Drug
The race begins at an hour usually reserved for either night shifts or the raiding of a kebab shop. Everyone gathers in Milngavie with that particular brand of ultra-runner enthusiasm, which is a concoction of a third nervous excitement, a third quiet acceptance that we’ve all massively underestimated what’s about to happen and a third hoping that you don’t shit yourself.
You hear the mutterings of those around you. There’s always that one person saying things like, “Just going to take it easy and see how I go” and another who plays down their training. These people are either lying or frighteningly well-adjusted. I was neither. Surprisingly, I was the calmest I’d ever been starting a race. My plan was simple: keep moving forward, avoid falling off anything, and try not to cry in front of strangers.
Early Miles: “This Isn’t So Bad…”
The first section lulls you into a false sense of security. Chatting, light jogging, feeling almost… normal. You think, I’ve trained well, I feel strong, this might actually go okay.
This is the race setting you up. The natural racing equivalent of Jeremy Beadle hiding somewhere ready to make you the next ‘watch out, Beadle’s about’ victim.
The terrain is kind, the body is fresh, and you’re still capable of basic arithmetic and forming sentences longer than three words. Spirits are high. Snacks are consumed with reckless optimism.
Somewhere Around Loch Lomond: Reality Arrives
If the early miles are a gentle handshake, Loch Lomond is a firm slap in the face.
It is relentless, and just awkward enough to make you question your foot placement and life choices simultaneously. The path becomes less “trail” and more “series of decisions you hope aren’t catastrophic.”
You start negotiating with yourself:
“Let’s just get to the next checkpoint.”
“Okay, that next rock.”
“Fine. Just don’t sit down. Definitely don’t sit down.”
(You then sit down.)
The plan was to cruise through the checkpoints as quickly as possible. No faffing, just grab my stuff and go. One of the many tough things about this section is that once you are passed Balmaha at 19miles, you aren’t seeing your crew until mile 53. They COULD get to Row’den but it’s a horrible road and not really worth anyone’s time.
Given the rain over the last week or two, it was a bit slippery under foot in sections. Thick mud hid a few rocks which helped at times and hindered at others. At one point at the end of the loch, I went full Vicar of Dibley into a bog. Thinking it was a small bit of mud, I ran through it and found myself near hip deep in clart, thankfully just missing the photographer.
As difficult as it was, the weather gods were on our side. It was warm but not to the point of ruining your day, it was dry, and there was just enough breeze to keep the swarms of midges away if you kept moving. In conditions like that, it is one of the most beautiful places in the UK.
Finishing the Fling to dance with the Devil
53 miles in you get to see your crew again. The only emotional bonds you’ve formed in the last 8 hours or so are with other runners which go something like this:
“How’s it going?”
“Yeah… you know.”
“Yeah.”
Deep stuff…No further explanation required.
I know everyone in the race will say it, but I had the best crew. 5 amazing people who gave up their weekends just to support dragging my carcass over hills for a crystal goblet.
Coming into Tyndrum, Simon was waiting with a wee pep talk. Before I knew it, I was sat in a seat, Pot Noodle in hand and bog remnants scraped from my legs. New fresh kit, teeth brushed and away again in about 10mins. From Tyndrum onwards you are allowed support runners, kindly Pete and Callum had offered with Pete taking the first leg.
The first section of the Devil leg is straight forward, a wee climb at the start and about 5 miles of flattish fire track road, along which I regaled tails of Watermelon for some reason.
Rannoch Moor: Beauty Meets Suffering
We’re now nearly 17hours and 60miles into the race. I head into the check point for the toilet and have my prayers answered. Sitting on the table is a large plate of Watermelon! Swiping a few bits, I head to see the team and switch support runners and embark on the section of the race I have a massive love/hate relationship with.
The stunning expanse of Rannoch Moor. It’s objectively beautiful. Vast, open, almost cinematic.
You’ll appreciate this beauty for around 14 seconds before your legs remind you that they’ve been operational for approximately a full working week without a break. A steep climb up Jelly Baby hill before a downhill that could only have been constructed for the arrival of Harry and Marv ahead of Christmas.
I’m starting to feel tired and sick now. I also know there’s a 5mile gradual incline coming up as well. I’ve tried to eat and the only thing I don’t try and throw back up is custard or a ball of plain rice.
Still, there’s something about that moment when you lift your head and look around. It is some of Scotland’s finest. The quietness broken by another support runner telling his Dutch pal that they are 4-0 up. It’s now Callum’s job to keep me moving and is there a better way than a pre downloaded KISS greatest hits playlist?!
Glencoe to Kinlochleven: The Longest “Almost There” Ever
Every ultra has a phase where you start doing dangerous maths:
“Only 25 miles to go.”
“That’s just… a long training run. It’s not even a marathon”
“That’s basically nothing.”
This is, of course, nonsense. It is not basically nothing. It is, in fact, 25 miles after already covering far more miles than most sensible humans would attempt in one go.
I am greeted into Glencoe by my support crew wearing t-shirts saying ‘Go Ben’ with each person taking a letter. As I had a member of the crew with me, some poor fella was pulled into be the ‘E’. I don’t know who it was, I thought they were a friend of someone but apparently, they weren’t, so a massive thank you for being a cheerleader!
More food and a switch of kit again to bring out the night stuff. Head torch on and a switch back to Pedro and we’re away. Pete’s chosen form of entertainment was a music quiz – name the song and artist – which was great until I was about 40 in with 100% correct and his battery was suffering as much as my legs. I was still moving fine until the staircase. My hips had taken a battering already and while the paracetamol had taken the edge off them, they were dead tight.
Losing day light quickly, we cracked on to get over the staircase which we just about managed. But the rest of the way was just putting one foot in front of the other and not taking any unnecessary risks.
Kinlochleven feels like the edge of civilisation. There’s real food. Real people. Chairs. Chairs. The temptation to simply stay there. We had a house on the route in the main street of Kinlochleven so as soon as I reached the checkpoint it made sense to head to the house.
I took an extra 15mins, take on more food which wasn’t making me sick. Knock back a coffee. A full change of kit. It was starting to get a bit cold outside and I had now been awake just shy of 48hours.
The Final Climb: Because Of Course There’s a Final Climb
Just when you think you’re near the end, the course throws in one final ascent out of Kinlochleven. It’s like the race saying, “Oh, you thought we were done? That’s adorable.” I reached the top about to vomit, cold sweats and feeling dizzy but you know in your head that’s the worst of the climbing done and just need to smash another pouch of custard and keep moving. An everyday feeling…right?!
At this stage, “running” is a generous term. Progress is happening, but it’s more of a negotiation than a fluid movement. Every step requires a small pep talk.
Getting to Lundavra feels like an eternity. I didn’t have many hallucinations. In fact, I only had one. The moonlight reflecting off a puddle against a slight gradient looked like a coffin. One that was decorated and was fit for a king. Possibly symbolic of the way I was feeling!
Callum had done a great job, he knew I was struggling but just kept about 5m in front to drag me along. He knew exactly when to say something and when not to. He teased the possibility of a sub 30hours, later admitting he thought it had gotten away from us as we sat about 30:05 ETA with 7miles to go. That said, I knew from the Devil even on tired legs, I have a decent pace down the hill into Fort William… especially with a bit of Iron Maiden playing.
The Finish: Relief, Pride, and Immediate Forgetfulness
Coming through Fort William is a great experience. I was back awake at this point and just rallied out a couple of 10min ish miles, so I knew I was at a point where I would comfortably be in under 30hours. A nice wee cruise through the town and I could even be a diva and refuse to run when Callum was barking orders… I’d been far too accommodating up until this point! Really, I was just saving my legs for the sprint finish!
Running across the corner of the bus station into cheers makes you feel on top of the world. The pain and suffering you’ve experienced momentarily washes away. You kick on round the corner and through the doors of the community centre and through the Yellow arch to cheers.
There’s something deeply satisfying about finishing something that, for a while, genuinely didn’t feel finishable. Not in the sense that I couldn’t achieve it, but just that it was never ending. At times, it was messy, very uncomfortable, occasionally ridiculous but as far as running goes, it will likely be an unmatched experience.
I have always said, despite not being a fan of marathons, that finishing your first marathon is the greatest feeling in running. I was wrong. Running for 29hours and 38mins (97.7miles) in one of the most beautiful parts of the world with your friends supporting you is undoubtedly the best feeling in running.
The Aftermath
I’m now on 55hours of no sleep, I’ve felt sick for about 12-15hours without being sick. But now I must be driven 40mins to the house in Kinlochleven. This was the most painful part of the day. Straight upstairs to vomit followed by a shower and 90mins sleep before heading back to the awards ceremony.
The ultra world is different. Generally the running world is a great supportive place but has recently started to be infested with a minority of people who like to piss on other people’s achievements and do things for the ‘likes’ rather than for themselves.
Ultra running doesn’t have that. Hopefully it never will and this race is a perfect example of what running should be. The awards ceremony is a celebration of amazing people doing amazing things. The person in first place awards the person in last place their goblet as they receive a standing ovation. This isn’t tokenistic, it’s genuine and deserved recognition to the fantastic accomplishments of that person. Each individual is called out in a graduation style event. Every person is clapped and cheered upon like they were family.
In the hours and days after, I managed to recover surprisingly well. Aside for swollen feet and calves I have been grand. None of the usual walking downstairs becoming a strategic operation, sitting down requiring commitment and handrails or standing up needing a pully system of some description.
And yet…
There’s already a tiny part of your brain saying, “I wonder if I could do that faster.” In fact, I don’t wonder, I know I can.
Which is exactly how these things get you.
If you’ve ever considered signing up for something like the West Highland Way Race, my advice is simple: do it.
Just don’t expect it to be sensible.
Or comfortable.
Or entirely rational.
But it will be memorable and you’ll have excellent stories to tell afterwards while you drink from your crystal goblet!
Finally…
A massive thank you to everyone involved in the race. The race organisers, the volunteers and the family/crew of the runners. The support I received will genuinely live with me for ever.
Thanks for all the supportive messages for all the guys at Newton Road Runners and my guys at BW Coaching. Super thanks to my coach Kaz (and the Wildheart runners) for getting me there in one piece, in the best shape possible and for the support during the run. Finally, to the best support crew (Jen, Pete, Callum, Beth and Simon), I’m not sure I could have done it without them. I am forever grateful for everything from the entertainment to the pep talks, from the food to the removal of items of clothes in the style of a formula 1 pitstop.
Now let’s go get this third crown!!
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