by Greig Stevenson
Your body will whisper before it shouts, unfortunately I learned this the hard way. I hope my story stops others from making the same mistakes I did.
The 17th of September 2022. Almost a year to the day since my Ill fated attempt at the Salomon Ring of Steall. It's also been a year of people asking questions about what happened.
To answer that question, I need to go back a little further into 2022. Unfortunately, my dad's health was causing concern early in the year and by April he was being treated by palliative care specialists. He sadly passed away only nine days after this care begun. The speed of decline was incredible and the toll taken on my family was great. It's difficult to explain how exhausted I felt during this time and for many months after. From picking up the natural bereavement fallout tasks to juggling elements of my dad's job as well as my own, I quite literally didn't know what day of the week it was.
Running took a backseat during the initial weeks after Dad's passing. I either couldn't face it, didn't have time or felt guilty for heading out when I could be helping in other ways. Realising my running goals were at risk, I then tried to massively overcompensate and trained above my capacity. I should note, I wasn't being coached at this time; the decision-making was all mine. I have a pretty bad habit of not listening to my body, thinking I can push through with no consequences. I was taught a few harsh lessons thinking that I could juggle hugely stressful life events over training whilst also grieving.
As a result, I suffered from fatigue whilst picking up every viral infection going. I would shake one and then be hit with another. We're talking serious man flu here! Training was like a Yo-Yo, and still, I thought I could cram the load in and make up for lost time.
At an alarming rate, September was upon me. I actually had a good few weeks of training in the immediate lead up and I felt some confidence being built that I could still get round the route, maybe I could even go under 6 hours I thought. I then picked up another infection, flooring me in the days before the event. That should have been the final straw, I should have said enough is enough. However, and I know this will sound pathetic, so many people were rooting for me, asking me questions and generally just being so nice and supportive. I didn't want to let them down. As I say, a pathetic reason as those same people were the ones who would have backed my decision to pull out.
I woke early on the morning of the 17h September to make the journey from the accommodation we had booked to the start line at Kinlochleven. Feeling far from OK and obviously looking shit, Lyndsey (my wife and partner in crime for those who don't know me) asked one final time - "are you sure you want to do this? You could just wait in a pub for me.". That was my last get-out. I didn't take it.
Lyndsey and I set off together from the start line before gradually separating. I got into a reasonable groove, running the early stages with a friend that I bumped into. Feeling quite positive and fuelling well, I pushed on to the first summit alone before beginning the grueling descent. Alarm bells began sounding. I felt very tired, almost groggy, and I was getting twinges of cramp. I said to myself, “I'll stop at Glen Nevis,” knowing I could get a friend to collect me there. After eating well at the aid station, I again decided to push on. Good decision, I thought; I ran well through the Glen, passing several other runners.
After crossing the river, there's seemingly a long, steep ascent. I say seemingly as I can't remember climbing it. What I do recall is running along the plateau and noticing the weather had turned. I was brutally cold and getting very wet. I remember saying several times to myself, “Stop and put a jacket on.” I’ve spent my adult life in the mountains. I'm normally good at reading the weather and acting quickly but I just couldn't compute what was happening around me. I then recall saying to myself, “You're going to faint. Stop.”
Luckily, I did listen this time, I crouched behind the relative safety of a large rock and started to attempt to get a jacket and gloves on. Honestly, if it wasn't a serious situation, it would have been funny to watch me do this. My body couldn't do basic tasks, my brain was numb and the world was spinning.
As fate would have it, one of the first fellow runners to reach me was Lyndsey. It must have been a horrible sight for her to see. Sorry! A couple of Irish guys helped to get my additional layers on, whilst also giving me an extra pair of gloves before a marshal then reached me. I can't recall the next moments but I found myself in a bothy shelter with another runner who kindly stopped to provide aid. Andrew was an A&E doctor so I felt some relief come over me in between the dry wrenching, crazy painful full leg spasms and uncontrollable shaking. I would doze for a few seconds before trying to answer the questions Andrew was asking.
I was gradually becoming more aware of the situation and it truly hit home when I heard Abe, the marshal, speak into his radio.
"Helicopter assistance required for immediate emergency evacuation.”
Andrew was concerned enough with my health that he saw no option but to request this assistance. Shit! I felt so stupid, I was putting more people in danger now.
Lyndsey, Abe and Andrew were absolute legends. Keeping me warm, trying to feed me and giving me warm ginger tea. To give context to how cold I was, I ended up wearing waterproof trousers on top of my shorts, two fleece tops over my t-shirt, a waterproof running jacket, a down jacket, a large mountaineering waterproof jacket, thin gloves and then large mountain gloves on top, a buff around my neck and a beanie, my legs and torso in a survival bag, then my legs in a large rucksack, another survival bag with arms and a hood, all whilst under the cover of the bothy shelter!
I could hear radio conversations with the race organisers and Abe, further explaining the situation. I tried to stand up to show I was OK and I didn't need a helicopter. However, the dizziness was insane and I was quickly back on my rock.
After what seemed a lifetime, we could all hear the distinctive sound of the approaching helicopter. The roar was intense, it sounded and felt like it was right above us but we couldn't see it. The weather was truly Scottish now. Thick fog, rain and a moderate wind. It was going to be a big ask to land or winch some brave soul down in those conditions. After several failed passes, the radio crackled into life again. They had to abort and also had another emergency to attend on Ben Nevis.
Abe advised that the race organisers had now sent up a rescue party on foot along with another doctor. Feeling even more foolish, with slurred speech, I tried again to say I'm OK and I'll just walk down myself. Needless to say, I was told no. Several hours had now passed, and I was gradually starting to feel more normal, just in time for the rescue party to arrive. The doctor gave a further examination, checking oxygen levels, heart rate and sugar levels. Understandably the heart rate was sky high but I was surprised to hear my sugar levels were also very high. The doctor's view is that the blanked memory of the ascent and dizzy spells were caused by spikes in sugar levels, which is not uncommon if your body has been fighting illness and fatigue. By not being aware of my surroundings I then reached a dangerous level of hypothermia, causing the sleepiness and slurred speech. It all seemed so simple and avoidable when he explained it.
With no action packed helicopter flight available, I won't bore you all with the details of the assisted and very long walk back to Glen Nevis but I do need to mention how incredible the rescue party was. We had a good laugh on the way back down, I ate their jam sandwiches and spoke about how I'll keep this story from my mum.
I've told this story to many people and I always try to emphasise what I have learnt from it and what I hope others can too.
Your body will whisper before it shouts, don't be like me, listen to it.
I wrongly battled on for months when I should have been grieving, spending time with family and adjusting to the changes in my life. Please don't underestimate the toll that bereavement can have and remember, that toll is not just on your mental wellbeing it's physical too. Rather than feeling like I couldn’t say “no” to avoid 'letting people down', I put them in a terrible state of worry and panic.
Those who matter wouldn't have blinked an eye lid if I said I was pulling out. Having such self awareness is in my opinion an undervalued skill for a successful athlete.
Be kind to yourself.
