Murphy’s Lore

Sam weathers all kinds of weather

When it comes to running, I have long regarded the weather as a troublemaker. Many a time I’ve cursed it for interfering with my plans; turning the track into an ice rink, the trail into a quagmire and once, throwing a headwind into the path of a potential PB along Hastings seafront in a half marathon.

When I’ve made the effort to get out there, it seems unjust that my running should be compromised by the weather. ‘Oi, weather!’ I shout, ‘I’ve got a schedule to follow here – this will not do!’ (Thankfully, this occurs only in my head.) But after four months trekking in Scotland, I’m beginning to accept with equanimity whatever the weather throws at me.

First, it was rain. It rained with such regularity for a spell in the Hebrides that I stopped bothering to peer out of the window to see if I needed my waterproof jacket. I just wore it, along with my perpetually wet running shoes. Nothing bad happened.

After that, strong winds swept over the islands, making a mockery of my tempo runs. I felt as if I were running on the spot rather than achieving the required seven-minute-mile pace and, afterwards, my watch showed I wasn’t far wrong. The coach in me said it didn’t matter – the effort level was still tempo – but the runner in me was appalled.

Then came hailstones. They pinged out of the sky, stinging my cheeks as I battled along, thinking, ‘This is ridiculous,’ but laughing all the same.

We travelled to the Coigach peninsula to take part in a half marathon. The day before the race – the sort of day about which locals say, ‘It’s a wee bit blowy, eh?’ – we climbed the slopes of Stac Pollaidh. It swept me off my feet, literally, and more than once. How on earth was I going to run a race in these atrocious conditions?

The same way everyone else did, I found. At the start line, runners exchanged the usual banter. I didn’t hear anyone whinging about the effect those icy 40mph gusts might have on their finish time.

Having completed the beautiful and arduous race, I can attest that running along an exposed Atlantic coast road into a headwind is as miserable as it sounds; but running effortlessly up a hill with the wind’s cheeky hand on your behind more than makes up for it.

A few weeks later, in the hills above Loch Ness, I woke up to snow. Snow that obscured the trails I was just beginning to get familiar with. Snow that blinded me to the undulations of those trails, and concealed iced-over puddles and fallen branches. First I pussyfooted through it, tense and ready to break into a walk at the slightest hint of a slip. But my confidence grew daily and soon I was running almost as if it wasn’t there.

I can’t say I’ve made peace with the weather, but I have learned three things about it during my time in Scotland. First, if you let it dictate your running plans, you’ll never get past the front door. Second, it’s never as bad as it looks – and even if it is, it’ll soon pass. And third, it’s good for you, though it might not seem that way when the wind is like a wall and the ground has turned to liquid. But all those times you run in extreme conditions you’re banking toughness as well as stamina, which will stand you in good stead, whatever the weather.

I did mile reps this morning. It was raining when I set off and I only noticed it had stopped when, after the last rep, I turned for home into a bright winter sun. The rainsoaked road gleamed like silver. My times weren’t bad either. It seems all forms of weather – not just clouds – have a silver lining.