"If you're going to run a marathon, make it a memorable one" - said a friend of mine, full of the stoic confidence of someone used to running a very long way.

Not having run a marathon before, this seemed sound advice. I wasn't sure if I'd want to run a second and didn't fancy the idea of pounding concrete for 3+ hours.

On reflection, I've no idea why Nick and I chose to travel to Scotland to run 26.2 miles. After all, the Glencoe marathon wasn't exactly the obvious newbie choice, classed as a mountain marathon with 1500m of vertical ascent. But it had a lot going for it too. It would necessitate a long weekend away, it was on Scotland's beautiful west coast and would almost certainly involve whisky. So it pretty much chose itself.

Nick and I had spent many, many weekends running up and down every possible track, road and footpath of Box Hill. With a max ascent of 100m (and that's being generous), we knew it was pretty poor training for a mountain marathon and yet it was the best we had to work with. Luckily, we'd recently done the Fan Dance, which whilst having proved so much more demanding than we'd expected, had put some hard mountain miles into our legs.

Driving into Glencoe, we were treated to a beautiful evening light as the sun slowly slipped from the valley floor. We pulled to the side of the road to take it in. We didn't see another living sole, such was the emptiness of this place, save for a single white building off in the distance (we later discovered this to be the King's House Hotel, more on this later).

We arrived at Callart View, our B&B. Instead of heading for the door,  we crossed the road and let the view over Loch Leven wash over us. It was a spectacular welcome, particularly after a day spent travelling.

Nestled in amongst the peaks of Glencoe, the Clachaig Inn somehow gives the sense of trying to hide itself among the stony, craggy giants that surround it. That evening, the pub was packed with a mix of locals, hikers and mountain goats, all seemingly keen for good pub grub. No one left hungry.

It was almost 8am and, with kit checks done and watches ready, we were nervously waiting for the race to start. The race preamble went in one ear and out the other, apart from mention of the Devil's Staircase; a section of steps on the West Highland Way with spectacular views over the glen. 

The Devil's Staircase apparently took its name from the years of toil local workers endured lugging materials up and down this path to build dams and access roads. Once paid, they'd climb up and over the ridge to visit the little white building (yes that one) in the middle of the valley floor to splurge their wages on booze. Later, having only borrowed the beer but spent their wages, weary legs would take them back up and over the Devil's Staircase. At least their pockets were empty for the walk back home.

We were off...

The first hour or so was easy enough, taking us up and out of the village, along the valley wall. We encountered a bog where our ‘path’ was only marked by the 2 inch deep footprints of the runners setting the early pace. My feet felt like they were encased in iron and covered in concrete.

And then we met the Devil.

The staircase rose up in front of us, criss crossing like an Alpine stage of the Tour de France. We set off as clods of half dried mud fell off our trail shoes. Nick and I pressed on, taking it in turns to lead. As we stopped to take in the view, we looked back over the path we'd ascended and saw a lot of people. Every one of them was walking, save for one. A diminutive woman with a pony tail and pink baseball cap.

We continued more slowly now as we realised this was every bit as leg and morale sapping as we'd been warned. We took regular breaks, climbing steadily and stopping at each hairpin for respite. We overtook a lot of people walking, struggling as the sun's gaze reflected off the path's stones and cooked our faces. These were some of the slowest overtaking maneuvers we'd ever likely make. And then from nowhere, the human form of the Duracell Bunny appeared.

She wore a pink baseball cap and pony tail appeared.

She was incredible and surely near twice my age. She appeared to have only one speed which on the flat would appear pedestrian, and yet here on the Devil's Staircase, she was like Lewis Hamilton leaving everyone in her wake.

Move over, the pink pony tail's coming through.

As we crested the final steps, we turned to take one last glimpse before enjoying the fast descent down into Kinlochleven - the half way point. It was nice to roll down that trail with Nick, jumping the streams and taking a few places. It was like being 6 or 7 years old and just running for running's sake. It was fun.

We arrived into Kinlochleven for much needed supplies and fresh socks. They felt epic and the sparkly white colour made a nice contrast with the chocolate brown mud that caked my trail shoes and legs.

Nick and I knew that the second part of the race would involve more climbing and our eager smiles would likely make way for grimaces. Full of intent, we set off.

At some point, the course spilled out on to a fire road which led to a place that could easily have been plucked from a National Geographic photo shoot. The valley was broad and the dusty, orange path cut a clear line through the scrub that covered the rocky terrain. It seemed to climb up towards the sky in a never ending series of gentle twists and turns. I made a mental note that this would be an incredible place to bring a mountain bike. For another day, I told myself.

We entered a pine forest as Ben Nevis came into view, before dipping down into the trees and losing sight of our target. The sweet smell of pine was thick in the air, as Nick and I drained our water supplies and clocked up 4 hours on the clock. I noticed how my thought pattern was changing, becoming less positive and seeking out new signs of discomfort and plausible excuses. I tried to avoid thinking that I'd be home and hosed by now if only I'd chosen a flat race.

Nick kept me on point.

"We're nearly there" - I said to Nick with 41km chalked up on my Garmin.

"But the finish is on Ben Nevis and I'm expecting fewer trees" - I followed with, as much to myself as it was to Nick.

Still, my Garmin had convinced me that the finish was now only a mere 300m or so away and we'd soon be able to see the finish line. As we turned yet another corner in the forest, we did indeed see the finish line. It was through the rest of the forest, over a field, across the valley floor and on the slopes of the second closest mountain.

It might as well have been in Ireland.

The next handful of kilometres took every ounce of reserve I had left, and some. The little trick my Garmin had pulled left me with such a sudden sense of disillusionment, I'd have walked if it wasn't for Nick continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

I have no memory of crossing the finishing line, save for the photos of that day. I must have been in some sleep-like state. Apparently, I didn't actually stop at the finish line but ran straight into the massage tent and buried my head in those funny 0 shaped cushions.

1 mountain marathon. 5 hours 34 minutes. 1500m ascent. An unknown number of celebratory whiskies drunk in that little white building (called the Kings' House Hotel).