The Innaugral Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational

St. Andrews, UK • September 2020 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

“What on earth is a pizza crunch?” asked Ryan in a bemused tone as he eyeballed the chip shop’s takeaway menu. It had been a six-hour journey to get to the coastal town of Anstruther for the man from Sheffield, followed by a full round of golf, and he was ravenous.

“Deep-fried pizza, of course,” answered Gadams with a shiver as a strong North Sea breeze whipped over the harbour walls. I only had a t-shirt on for protection and my nipples had become rock hard in defence. “A local delicacy here in Scotland,” I added. “You can’t come here and not give it a try.”

“Gluten-free fish supper for me,” said Aaron quickly, Ryan’s playing partner for the day. The pair had enviously completed a round on St. Andrews famed Old Course that afternoon whilst I’d been chained to my desk at work and were on cloud nine. After a shaky start of laying up short of the water on the 1st from 116 yards, Aaron had eventually grown some balls by the back 9, culminating in a glorious up-and-down from the infamous 17th Road Hole bunker.

Three-and-a-half years had passed since we’d met flashpacking around New Zealand, our bond having been cemented with an epic outing to Queenstown Golf Club at Kelvin Heights. Gadams had taken the spoils that day, his victory secured with a nerveless birdie up the narrow par 5 closing hole; much to the delight of the nursing home fan club he’d managed to garner attention from under the beating southern summer sun.

It had been a long time in the making, but Ryan was anticipating a different outcome this time around, his handicap having plummeted thanks to the daily practice sessions and significant kit investment. I was still dubious, mind you, and was quietly convinced that he had all the gear but still no idea. We’d find out soon enough, with a tee-off time at the coastal Castle Course booked for early the following morning; our first of 6 rounds to be played over that long-weekend to find a victor of the inaugural, but already steeped in history, Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational.

Round 1 – Castle Course

“This man knows how to play Links golf,” chuckled the Starter as my ball drilled low off the 1st tee and skipped along the undulating fairway. I turned and gave a wry smile to my playing partner for the day, Aaron, doing my best to hide the fact that it had been a complete miss-hit knife of a shot and that my hands were still stinging from the impact.

“Cracking shot,” announced Ryan as Gadams then sliced a high moon ball 50 yards right towards the main road before it disappeared into hillock of dense heather. The man still had a lot to understand about Links golf, but as it would quickly become apparent he was a fast learner indeed.

Nervous punches were traded in the opening stages, net pars doing enough to level the scoreboard back-and-forth until we reached Briery Hill – the behemoth 518-yard par 5 4th hole. After a cracking drive down the left-hand side, Aaron left himself the option to lay up with his approach or to take on the burn guarding the green and reach the putting surface in two. “What do you think, Crobs?” he asked me, evidently in two minds. “You’re taking it on,” I said with no hesitation. “This tournament rewards the brave, not the meek.” Choosing his weapon, Aaron took a few practice swings before proceeding to smash the ball along a frozen rope directly towards the flagstick, his shot coming to rest no more than 3 foot from the pin. “Unbelievable,” gasped Ryan from the other side of the fairway, in complete disbelief as to what Aaron had just pulled out the bag. Did he miss the eagle putt? Of course, he did, we’re not professionals. But the game was now afoot and the first blow had been dealt.

A brief stop at the halfway hut for some bacon rolls offered up the most spectacular of vistas. “Dolphins were playing in the bay the other day,” said the Eastern European girl behind the counter as she served us, “and sometimes I even get a glimpse of the fighter jets from the nearby RAF base as they roar past on training exercises. It’s not bad for an office view.”

The wind bore its ugly teeth as we made the turn, our tee shots on the par 3 10th battering our balls straight left and into the gorse like swatted flies. Its full force was then felt on the par 4 11th as I ripped back-to-back 2-irons and still couldn’t reach the green in regulation. It was becoming less about good scoring and more about trying to finish each hole without a lost ball or unwanted trip into the dense, wispy heather. I managed my first birdie of the tournament after a dialled-in wedge on the course’s shortest par 3, but we got little respite and weren’t helped by the speedy 4-ball playing right up behind us.

“That’s Fife golf for you right there,” laughed Graham as yet another of my putts slipped by the hole and I let out a yell of frustration. Another dropped shot, and as we reached the signature 17th hole the match still hung in the balance. A daunting 200+ yards par 3, the tee shot needs to be hit over the side of a cliff edge as the roaring ocean to the right takes all your attention and whispers of ‘out-of-bounds’ circle in the wind… and your mind. Gadams and I proceeded to step up and banana slice our balls straight into the North Sea. Pretty much par for the course at this point.

It came down to some nerves of steel on the 18th green to break the deadlock, Aaron snaking in a 10-foot par putt to take the hole and claim the match-play spoils by the most narrow of margins. Although our team had won the match, however, the course had been the real victor, Ryan topping the Stableford standings with a measly 26 points and the rest of us only managing a depressing 21 points each. As we jumped in the cars and headed into the Home of Golf, each of us was praying for improved performance that afternoon.

Round 2 – Jubilee Course

There was not much to write home about for our second round. 29 points across the board proved that the Jubilee was an easier test of golf, but by no means were any of us firing on all cylinders yet. Ryan took the closest to the pins and long drive challenges, but couldn’t turn these opportunities into points on the scoreboard. I had to play the first 4 holes with a burrowing migraine, the covid-19 distancing measures in place meaning water and food were in short supply. Running on fumes, I was just happy to make it round in one piece and not give up too much ground on my opposition. Even the match-play element of the competition was halved, which meant that Ryan and I would be paired together once again the following morning during the 3rd round.

Round 3 – Eden Course

The easiest course on paper, the Eden is slightly inland and sheltered from the sea, but can still prove to be a tricky track if you don’t keep it straight off the tee or get your yardages incorrect. Feeling rejuvenated, Gadams and I set off hot out the gates, both of us taking advantage of a course that we had played before.

Saying that, however, Gadams wouldn’t be looking for a repeat of the incident that occurred the last time he was in town when his cousin shanked a tee shot straight into the chest of a fellow golfer standing on the green of a bordering hole. The man hit the ground like he’d been shot and lay motionless for a scarily long time before crawling back to his feet. Walking over to sincerely apologise, a heated argument erupted between the two parties before a course marshal passed by on a buggy and managed to calm things down.

A three-ball of older gentlemen were playing up our arses from the get-go, so we kindly let the play through on the 5th. With the casting eyes of four ‘youngsters’ watching over them, however, they proceeded to top each of their respective balls all the way from tee-to-green, somehow managing to claim that it was our fault in the process. After a bit of a spat on the 9th tee about our slow play, the highlight came when all four of us attached the par 5 in two, coming away with a couple of birdies between us – Legends.

Taking stock of the halfway scores on the next tee, a daunting and long par 3 back into the breeze, a foreign Goddess came jogging down the public path towards us. The beauty of St. Andrews golf is that all the courses are public land, and many people were out on this sunny morning walking their dogs, cycling and getting some fresh air. It was my time to impress, and I duly ripped my 3-iron straight onto the green. She, nor anyone else in the vicinity for that matter, even so much as blinked an eye.

Unperturbed, I continued in good form and strung together back-to-back birdies in the closing holes whilst Gadams faltered. It was enough for an impressive 7-over-par round 77, cutting into the lead that Ryan had built up after the first day and securing the match-play win in the process. I love the psychological process of facing an opponent; being able to wear them down with repeated banter.

Round 4– Jubilee Course

Making sure I was well-fed and watered this time round, I stepped onto the first tee at the Jubilee course with renewed confidence. I was playing better, had the layout of this course fresh in my mind from the day before, and was ready to post a low number. Life had other plans, however, and my opening tee shot was a massive duck hook about 30 yards left. I found myself playing my second from the Old Course and, despite my best recovery efforts, chalked down a bogey 5. This continued for the rest of the front 9 and as blisters on my feet began to form it was back to the drawing board.

Saying that, I was faring better than Aaron. Having not managed to break 90 in his first three rounds he was at the rear of the pack and had reverted to using a 7-iron off the tee for safety. A change of tactic which initially worked well, but things then unravelled on the 11th tee when he snap-hooked it straight left over the out-of-bounds-line and was welcomed with a splash as it landed in the ocean below. “Whoa, baby,” we commented as his face turned red. “Michael Jackson. Whoa, baby.”

By the time we reached the 15th the blisters on my feet had swollen to golf ball-size proportions and every step down the fairway was met with wincing pain. My chaffed arse adding to the discomfort, I somehow managed to hold myself together for the final four holes and post a respectable score but it was then straight to the supermarket to get plasters, antiseptic cream and dressing. After a lovely dinner in The Ship Inn in the nearby town of Elie, a wild Saturday night was spent tending to my wounds and watching Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows. Absolute banter

Round 5 – New Course

A 5:30am alarm clock awoke us from our slumber for the final day of competition, with the very first tee time on the New Course having our names against it. The wheels of my rented trolley picked up the early-morning dew as we marched down from the clubhouse; not a soul around. Despite lacking my morning coffee, the morning chills kept me alert as I basked in the serene silence. It was still all to play for in the main Stableford competition, with a much sought-after trophy on offer for the champion golfer who could come out on top. Ordered online and shipped from Asia, Gadams was required to superglue it back together after it failed to make it through the international postage service unscathed. A rather apt trophy for such a troubled and ego-checking golf competition. Win or lose, I think we all felt that the monetary aspect of the prize pot wouldn’t be wasted were it put towards collective group lessons.

Steady as she goes seemed to be Ryan’s motto for the New Course that morning as he strung together 10 straight pars to start the day with a bang. Gadams made a nice birdie two to keep in contention, whilst Aaron and I may as well have been playing tennis for all we were worth. We could have been locked up in Bantanimo Bay for some of the dreadful shot-making on display.

Ryan quickly realised that he was on track to break a personal record and things took a more serious turn. After a small wobble on the 16th to take him 1-over-par for the round, Ryan flushed a 3-wood on the long par 3 17th and drained the putt to take him back to level par standing on the 18th tee.

“I’ve never shot level par before,” he admitted, the fire in his eyes showing how much this would mean to him, especially on such a prestigious and challenging course. Putting his ball on the tee peg and taking several deep breaths, he then proceeded to splat his next two shots right and then father right, his ball coming to rest pin high but a good 30 feet off-target. A decent chip left a makeable par putt, but it was evidently Ladies Day as he left it short (does your husband play?) and had to settle for a one-over-par 72.

An outstanding and consistent round of golf nonetheless and proof that power and showmanship is nothing without the nuts and bolts tightened first. His fairway and green in regulation stats were remarkable for the first time playing a course and it was far and away the best of all 24 combined rounds played that weekend. The erratic golfer we had witnessed in New Zealand 3 years ago was nowhere to be seen and this was proof that hard work and persistent practice can pay significant dividends.

Round 6 – New Course

It was a déjà vu moment standing back on the first tee, the sun now beating down from the clear blue skies. To have had three rain-free days of golf on the east coast of Scotland is quite unheard of and to be able to tee up in short sleeves was other-worldly. Back-to-back rounds on the New Course wasn’t ideal, but there were no complaints. With sun cream all over my slippery hands, I pulled out my trusty 5-iron and knocked one down the middle.

Despite finding water hazard after bunker after out-of-bounds, I’d somehow managed to keep my scores ticking over and carried a 1 point Stableford lead over Ryan into the final round, himself with a 2 point lead over Gadams. Aaron was just happy to be there at that point, having amassed a score that would have been deemed exceptional at Lord’s Cricket Ground. Shot, shot, pint, shot, shot, sick.

Playing from behind, Gadams took on an aggressive game plan and quickly made up some ground. A martial was sat in his buggy right behind the tee box on the par 5 8th hole; timekeeping and ensuring that there were no choppers out there destroying the course. Becoming slightly nervous with a figure of authority present, my attempt to smash the life out of my drive resulted in a 15 yard top straight into the thick gorse barely in front of the ladies tee – much to Ryan’s delight. What he didn’t count on, however, was me finding the ball, ripping a 4-iron back into play, and then ripping another 4-iron straight over a blind summit right towards the green. We got to the top of the hill to see that my ball had come to rest less than a foot from the pin. “Golf just isn’t that difficult,” I trolled as I knocked it in for birdie.

Alas, this moment of heroics wasn’t enough to save the day, however, and Gadams ended up making a par on the 108th hole to clinch a 3 point victory over Ryan and myself who ended up in a tie for second.

We nudged elbows in a congratulatory gesture and headed across to the Old Course Swilkan Bridge, one of the most iconic images in golf, for the presentation ceremony. I took great honour in donning Gadams with a charity shop-bought Tweed Jacket as Aaron handed him the weighty trophy and Ryan read out the final scores. Gadams then made a short acceptance speech thanking some of his most trusted believers in Bantersaurus Rex, the Bantom of the Opera, and Banter Claus, before proposing we spend our winnings on a trip to Pizza Hut (13 slices) followed by a full cooked breakfast at Weatherspoons the following morning. A perfect send-off to an incredible weekend with a bunch of legends.

Official Results as sponsored by AWG Electical - Professional. Friendly. Reliable.

Completing the David Goggins 4/4/48 Running Challenge

Yorkshire Dales, UK • August 2020 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

We’ve all had that feeling of being stuck in our comfort zone, procrastinating away those tasks and activities that we know deep down will help us grow and develop as people. Instead of waking up at 6 am to sweat out that gym session, we hit the snooze button. Instead of working on that personal project, we lay in front of the television. Instead of studying for that exam, we needlessly scroll through our social media accounts. Old habits do indeed die hard.

That’s why, in 2008, when entrepreneur Jesse Itzler fell into a routine that he couldn’t get out of, he decided to take extreme action: by inviting a fully-fledged Navy SEAL to stay with him for 30 days and handing over complete control of his schedule. This SEAL was David Goggins, an ultra-runner and all-round badass. “If you’re crazy enough to ask a guy like me to come and live with you,” he’d said to Itzler, “then motherfucker I’m crazy enough to come.”

As documented in Itzler’s book Living with a SEAL, over the course of a month the pair undertook a series of bizarre physical and mental challenges; from submerging themselves in a frozen lake, to spontaneous burpee tests during business meetings, to running through a blizzard. Due to its absurdness, however, one challenge stood out head and shoulders above all others, capturing the minds of hundreds of like-minded individuals looking to push themselves to new limits: The 4x4x48 challenge - run 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours.

RUN #1 - 4/48 MILES - 8AM

It didn’t take much persuasion to convince my friends Jay and Gadams to join me on this undertaking, and no sooner had I pitched the idea were we searching for a suitable location. We wanted somewhere relatively equidistant from our hometowns, somewhere in the countryside where we could add scenery to our runs, and somewhere we could switch up the terrain and 4-mile routes at ease. The beautiful Yorkshire Dales ticked all of these boxes.

And that’s how we found ourselves in the car park of Fawston Reservoir in South Yorkshire on a rainy Thursday at 7:50 am, dressed as the 118-118 characters from the popular early 00’s TV advert. As we limbered up I was noticeably nervous and, despite not being under any time pressure or having any competition, still had those distinct butterflies that accompany pre-race jitters. Raising money for Age UK in the process, we had agreed to don fancy dress costumes at each £250 milestone.

Two guys of similar age to ourselves appeared from the public path, soaked to the bone, and upon seeing us bounced over with smiles like we were old friends.

“Love the costumes, guys,” said the shorter of the two, his purple marathon finisher’s t-shirt indicating that he wasn’t your fair-weather athlete. “We’ve just finished a 21 km loop. What are you up to?”

“We’re running the David Goggins 4x4x48 challenge for charity,” explained Jay.

“Ah yeah, I’ve heard of that. Here, let me take your photo. How many runs have you completed so far?”

“This is the start line,” admitted Gadams as the three of us huddled in for a picture.

“No wonder you look so fresh and cheery,” he said, handing back the iPhone and turning towards his car. “We need to head off to work now, but best of luck to you.”

We gave them thanks and as they departed we started our watches and set-off. The first part of the route took us along an A-road and the tooting horns of commuting cars offered some early support as we hollered ‘Got your number’ at each passing smile. The path then dropped down through a forest, winding its way to the banks of the reservoir where for 6 peaceful kilometers we circumnavigated the beautiful body of water. The first of twelve runs was an absolute breeze and as we stretched out our legs on the homeward section I couldn’t help but think to myself: ‘how hard can this challenge be?’

RUN #2 - 8/48 MILES - 12PM

After a large bowl of porridge for breakfast, Jay set out on a reconnaissance mission in his car to scout some future routes, returning half-an-hour later and boasting of a monster hill that we should incorporate into our second run. Still naïve to the challenge ahead, Gadams and I agreed wholeheartedly, and as we exited our farmhouse base at midday to blue skies we were raring to go.

Our costume of choice this time around was bananas, and as we strode onto the country road a vista of fields and hedgerows stretched as far as the eye could see. Unfortunately, our costumes made taking in these picturesque surroundings rather difficult. As did the persistent headwind, which effectively turned our bananas into buffers. It was like trying to run with an open parachute on your back. About a mile in, an oncoming Range Rover slowed to a halt and a well-dressed elderly gentleman stuck his head out of the driver-side window. “Are you guys running for charity?” he beamed, clearly entertained. It can’t be that often you see a bunch of bananas running about your backroads, I suppose. “Those costumes are fantastic. Give me the link to your donation page and I’ll be sure to contribute.”

Despite a knee injury having impacted my training schedule, my legs were feeling good. We continued on a declining gradient until the 3-mile mark, at which the dreaded hill appeared ahead of us like Mount Everest: a vertical mile of tarmac stretching skywards to the farmhouse. There was nothing for it but to face my head down and keep the motor running. The banana costume soaked up sweat like a sponge and became heavier and heavier with every shuffling step, but again the excitement of passers-by and their hoking horns motivated me to the top and the completion of mile number eight.

RUN #3 - 12/48 MILES - 4PM

We returned to the reservoir-loop for our third run, having spent the afternoon recovering in the hot tub and piling on the calories. It was apparent that our caloric intake would be through the roof for the duration of the challenge as our bodies tried to replenish the energy exerted every four hours. Anticipating this, we had carefully prepared our meals in advance so that we could feast immediately after each run and maximize our digestive and recovery time. Fitting then that we were now adorned in chefs hats and aprons, having surpassed the £750 donation mark.

As the sun beat down on us I fell behind Gadams and Jay, my knee becoming more and more uncomfortable with each twist and turn in the trail. I tried to keep the grimace from my face, but my worst fear was being realized much earlier in the challenge than I had anticipated. The IT-band runs from your glute down the outside of your thigh muscle and is a common injury among runners that can sideline them for months. When inflamed, it causes an unmistakable pain on the outside of your knee that feels like the stabbing of a dagger. Barely 10-miles into the challenge and I already was beginning to limp.

The reservoir was packed with visitors; couples out for romantic afternoon strolls, families pushing their babies in prams, and elderly friends out for a relaxing chat in the sunshine. Had I been alone and dressed less ridiculously then I may well have fallen into a walk. When you’re chasing two other chefs who also look like they are fleeing a burning kitchen, however, pride and self-consciousness come to the fore. The mantra ‘don’t care what other people think’ is a good one to live by, but at that moment in time caring what every passer-by was thinking served as the ultimate motivator to keep my legs going. Blocking out the pain, I completed the 4 miles in my slowest time yet, spurred on by the shout of ‘hurry up, you’ll be late for dinner’ coming from a small child out playing with her family.

RUN #4 - 16/48 MILES - 8PM

A Storage Hunters omnibus kept us entertained as I iced my leg with a bag of frozen peas. Jay was chowing down a chicken salad and Gadams working his way through a bag of potato waffles, proving that there was more than one way to fuel the body throughout the challenge.

We had earmarked a flat route along the country roads near our farmhouse for the next run - two miles out and two miles back. I traded my t-shirt for a knee-support and as we jogged towards the setting sun I felt night-and-day better than four-hours before. My body was adapting to its shortened circadian rhythm and, now a third of the way into the challenge, run-rest-repeat was becoming ingrained in my brain.

RUN #5 - 20/48 MILES - 12AM

After forty winks, I awoke at midnight to the news that we’d raised £1,000 for Age UK. Despite it being pitch black outside, a promise was a promise, so we pulled on our skimpy cheerleader costumes as a mark of hitting the milestone, strapped on our head-torches, and headed down to the reservoir. To mix things up we agreed to run anti-clockwise this time, and also to stick together conga-style so as not to get lost or wander off course. There was no moon in the sky to provide natural light, so the power of two AA-batteries was all I had beaming out in front of me.

It proved tricky to navigate the trail with blinkered visibility of about two metres, and the uneven, undulating surface was playing havoc with my stride pattern. This, in turn, put additional pressure on my knee, and twice in the first 400m I had to pull up and stretch out my right leg. Gadams and Jay stood strong in their promise to remain by my side for the 4-miles, however, and their words of encouragement were a God-send. Although the Ibuprofen was kicking in and helping, laughter is the best medicine and I couldn’t feel too downtrodden for long. The ridiculous costumes not only added novelty to our fundraising effort but were also serving as a motivational tool more than I’d ever imagined. No matter how badly I was hurting, the absurdity of running around Yorkshire in a skin-tight cheerleader costume completely took the pressure off and was a welcome distraction for the pain. One foot before the other and my prayers for the car park finish line to materialize in front of us were eventually answered.

With seven runs to go, I was severely doubting whether I was up for completing the challenge. I’d read online beforehand that it was as much a mental test as it was a physical one, and as my head hit the pillow at 1 am for a brief two-hour kip I was beginning to realize why. My mind was in constant motion and that ever-looming threat of the next run was omnipresent. Tick tock. Tick tock. Only three hours to go until we had to face it all over again. Who was going to carry the boats? Who was going carry the logs? We were.

RUN #6 - 24/48 MILES (HALFWAY MARK) - 4AM

A gorgeous sunrise over the countryside fields greeted us upon completion of our sixth run, and with the dawn of a new day came the confidence that I could finish the challenge. It was a huge psychological barrier to hit the halfway mark and after a hearty bowl of porridge and cleanse in the hot tub I felt like a new man. The rollercoaster of pain and emotions was an uncomfortable ride, but one I was now adamant that I wouldn’t fall off.

RUN #7 - 28/48 MILES - 8AM

After two runs guided by headtorch, it was a welcome sight to be setting off on the seventh run in daylight. We were quickly learning the country roads like the back of our hands, and each turn in the asphalt and gradient change served as a checkpoint: Farmhouse to the end of the driveway – 200m; farmhouse road to Give Way junction – 1 mile; A-road to the reservoir – 1.5 miles. If you’re looking to undertake this challenge, then I strongly recommend you do it in a rural area where the air is cleaner and the grass is greener. A fresh setting also gives you time to think, removes home-life distractions, and allows you to better escape routines.

RUN #8 - 32/48 MILES - 12PM

I was less than one kilometre into the eighth run and could already feel rivers of sweat coming off my forehead and flowing down my spine. The midday sun was so strong that it could have fried an egg on the baking hot tarmac and the ridiculous raver’s wig and floral patterned shirt I had on were not exactly keeping me cool. As each stride took us further into the furnace of Hell, however, we were spurred on by the hollers of encouragement from passing cars.

The Friday traffic was picking up as people traveled to the Dales for the weekend and the sight of three stupidly-dressed men running in unadorned surroundings was putting smiles on dozens of faces. We had personal motivations to complete the challenge, of course, but the fact that we could raise money for a good cause and entertain people at the same time was making it a far more rewarding adventure than I had ever anticipated it would be.

RUN #9 - 36/48 MILES - 4PM

With two-thirds of the challenge complete, we fell into a false sense of belief that the end was in sight. My whole body was beaten and broke, but I’d become accustomed to the perpetual pain which now persisted even in between runs. It was mind over matter from this point on. Some cloud cover had brought the temperature down and we eased through the ninth run with what felt like a good amount of reserves in the tank. A chicken and sweet potato curry was our reward and straight after dinner, I got some shut-eye before our final daylight run. The sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll.

RUN #10 - 40/48 MILES - 8PM

The cheerleader outfits made a triumphant return for our 8 pm outing, as did the Everest incline that we’d conquered in our banana costumes on run number 2. Setting off, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since then and as the heavens opened the midday heat was now a long-gone memory. The rain came down as heavy as a South-East Asian monsoon and lightning cracked across the sky as my shoes began to fill with water. In a masochistic way, I welcomed this weather warning. It was an opportunity to harden my mind in tougher conditions, and I was relishing the opportunity. Jay and Gadams summited the monster hill a few minutes before I did and had their iPhones at the ready to catch me on tape as I reached the top. ‘Ten down, two to go,’ I smiled, raising my hands to the sky.

RUN #11 - 44/48 MILES - 12AM

What a difference 4 hours makes. From the excruciating pain of run 3 to cruising run 4 I felt like I’d been healed by Our Lady of Lourdes, but the complete opposite had now happened between runs 10 and 11. Making my way up the driveway I could have been mistaken for trying to imitate a John Wayne western, but a constantly moving bowel and sandpaper-like toilet paper does that to you. Considering my condition, we agreed to just run shuttles back and forth along the farmhouse road until the 6.4 km was complete, and I set off in earnest.

I’d made myself a promise to never walk.  Once that happens, then you’ve succumbed to the mental battle. There were no rules against it, mind you, but had I not run every step of the way I would have felt like a bit of a charlatan. The penultimate run proved to be the slowest and most difficult of the lot as I fought against a sprained ankle for the majority of the distance, but the end was now tantalizingly close.

RUN #12 - 48/48 MILES - 4AM

My final alarm clock went off with the pitch of an air raid siren, but knowing that we were embarking on the final 4-mile victory lap I sprung out of bed ready to empty the tank. It’s somewhat fitting to complete such a mentally and physically exhaustive challenge in the manner that we did. No fanfare. No finish line set up. No crowds cheering us on. Only the sound of our heavy footsteps and breathing accompanied us as our GPS watches ticked over the 48-mile mark at 4:40 am. “You don’t know me, son” I yelled out into the early dawn, beating the rooster’s crow.

My whole body hurt, from my busted knee to my peeling feet to the jabbing pain in my back that felt like I’d been punched in the kidney. But we had completed what we set out to do with fairly minimal fuss and taking the highs and lows in our stride. We stumbled in the front door of the farmhouse, stripped off our sweaty clothes for one last time, and crashed out. With £2,200 raised for Age UK – challenge complete.

If you wish to donate to Age UK and support a fantastic cause, then please visit the link below:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/run48hourchallenge

Beach Bonfire (Bucket List #24)

Arisaig, Scotland, UK • June 2016 • Length of Read: 7 Minutes

“I know the perfect beach for us to camp on,” smiled Fry as he barreled the car around the single track road that hugs the banks of Loch Lomond; rear-ending other vehicles like he was a white van man driving around a Formula 1 circuit. “My dad and I found this really cool secluded cove once when open-water kayaking. It’s not too far from the little seaside town of Arisaig so should be easy enough for us to find from the land. Man, this weather is a peach. I’m hoping that there will be a host of foreign girls playing topless volleyball there when we arrive.”

Our original idea had been a bit more grandiose. Having walked the length of the West Highland Way from Milngavie to Fort William, we then planned to take the Jabobite steam train across the Glenfinnan Viaduct to its terminus in the port of Malaig, where we would be able to get a well-deserved pint of beer in The Old Forge, Britain’s most remote pub. Unfortunately, with the Jacobite having been used as the Hogwarts Express in the Harry Potter films, ticket prices for that particular route were substantially higher than for your standard Scotrail journey. Being lazy, Wolfy also point-blank refused to waste valuable vacation days from work to simply walk, so we scrapped the idea of re-enacting the famous scene where Ron and Harry catch up with the train in their flying Ford Anglia and opted for a weekend’s camping instead.

Fry’s optimistic delusions kept us entertained for the length of our five-hour journey, and distracted us from the impending death situations he seemed to place us in on every bend in the road. There is a cult novel within the Scottish mountaineering community by Richard Happer called The Hills Are Stuffed With Swedish Girls, which I guessed he might have recently read and mistaken for actual events. In the book, two lads decide that a week in the hills is exactly what their other best mate needs after getting dumped by his girlfriend. Convincing him that mythically hot European girls do actually come to Scotland on outdoors holidays, the three set off with their pet cat on what turns out to be a hilarious journey filled with more ups and downs than the hills they traverse. Being a novel, they do also bump into some rather charming Swedish girls along the way, of course. Only when we arrived in Arisaig and pulled over to pick-up some supplies did Fry eventually snap back into reality.

“We’re going to need matches, kindling, burgers, sausages, rolls, ketchup, marshmallows, and plenty of beer,” said Wolfy, compiling a mental shopping list as we entered the town’s sole convenience store. I wasn’t too optimistic, but with a little searching, we actually managed to tick everything off. The owner of the shop clearly knew his customer demographic and needs.

“Swedish girls, here we come,” yelled Fry as we shoved everything in the boot and continued on our quest. The guy was more excited than a kid waiting for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve and might have left burn marks on the road as the tyres screeched away. Five minutes later we were pulling into a beachside car park.

“Here we go,” he grinned, darting up a nearby sand dune with the nimbleness of a billy goat and leaving Wolfy and I lugging the tents and food behind. It felt more like we were heading to a music festival than on a boy’s camping trip. Reaching the top of the bank and casting his eyes presumably across the beckoning shoreline on the other side, Fry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. “You won’t believe this,” he exclaimed, turning back to face us and shouting down. “You will not believe this.”

“If there are Swedish girls over this ridge,” I said to Wolfy, “then I’ll eat my hat.”

“You’re not wearing a hat,” he replied as we raced up as fast as the weight we were carrying would let us.

“My hypothetical hat,” I panted, gunning to find out what had excited Fry so much. Reaching the top, out of breath, we too were stopped dead in our tracks. “No fucking way,” I yelled. A couple stood on the otherwise empty beach throwing a Frisbee to one another. And both were stark naked.

“Check out the piece on him,” I said as he dived to catch the plastic disk, his rather well-endowed penis spinning around like a helicopter rotor blade.”

“Should we offer them some wood?” laughed Fry, teeing me up for the joke. “The fire they have going is an embarrassment.”

“I think the last thing you need to offer that guy is some wood,” I chuckled as we made our way down.  "His girlfriend definitely doesn't need any of our marshmallows, either," I added, commented on her  rather rotund physique. Spotting us, the pair absolutely shat the pants that neither of them was at that moment wearing and darted into the seclusion of their one-man tent.

“This looks to be a good a spot as any,” announced Wolfy, dumping the tents he was carrying on the sand about 50m past the naked ramblers. “High enough to avoid the rising tide and a nice grassy knoll over there on which we can build our bonfire.”

"And close enough to cockblock your man over there from getting any action tonight," I smiled.

"Did you see her?" commented Wolfy. "I think we're doing him a favour."

Crobs Abroad: The Seven Wonders of Scotland

Scotland, UK • June 2017 • Length of Read: 7 Minutes

There are numerous ‘seven wonders of the world’ lists kicking about online, from the ‘seven wonders of nature’; to the ‘seven wonders of the industrial world’; of the ancient world; of the solar system; of the underwater world; to the ‘seven wonders of the modern world’, which we have pretty much agreed upon as being, Machu Picchu; Petra; Chichen Itza; Pyramid of Giza; Great Wall of China; Christ the Redeemer, and the Taj Mahal.  I’ve visited the South American pair so far, but still have another five to go before I can tick off bucket list item #57.

Albeit quite novel, these lists are pretty interesting, so I was therefore disappointed when finding out that nobody has ever come up with a set ‘Seven Wonders of Scotland’. The Scotsman newspaper did once run a public vote to find out what Scots thought some of the most wonderful things that their homeland had to offer were, with the impressive Forth Rail Bridge taking first place accolades, but I still feel that a definitive list needs to be compiled.

Now, caveat time. I am neither a historian nor a geographer, and I struggle to follow Lego instructions never mind architectural blueprints, so for the purposes of this list I have excluded all wonders of nature and engineering. Scotland is one of the most beautiful countries in the world and I could never separate what if feels like to drive through Glencoe; climb Ben Nevis; traverse Skye’s Cullin Ridge, or witness the wildlife of the Outer Hebrides. If you are looking for this then Visit Scotland have put together a list of the best walking trips throughout Alba. And with this in mind, here are Crobs Abroad’s alternative Seven Wonders of Scotland.

Single Malt Scotch Whisky

Having rambled around a large part of the globe, the most common response by far from the locals of foreign lands when finding out where I’m from is to simply exclaim, ‘whisky’. No other word can define Scotland in a nutshell other than the name of the country itself, regardless of where you seem to go. I’ve had Cambodian taxi drivers, Peruvian mayors, and Kiwi hoteliers all express their love for the amber bead, and each also was under the impression that we have been raised on the stuff from birth as if it’s a replacement for breast milk.

Now, as most whisky connoisseurs will tell you, to be a single malt scotch the whisky must have been distilled at a single distillery in Scotland using barley and then matured in oak casks for at least three years and one day. What many people get confused over, however, is how to spell the word. Is it ‘whisky’ or is it ‘whiskey’? Quite simple, really. In almost all cases, if the whisky is made in countries with no ‘e’ in their names, such as Canada, Japan, or Scotland, then it’s spelt as so. If it comes from countries with an ‘e’ in their names, such as Ireland or the good ole’ U.S of A, then it's spelt ‘whiskey’.

Golf

The first written record of golf is when James II banned the game in 1457 because it was becoming an unwelcome distraction to learning archery. Even the King couldn’t resist the allure of the stick and ball game, however, and lifted the ban in 1502 when taking up the sport himself. The Old Course at St. Andrews in the Eastern Kingdom of Fife has been labelled ‘The Home of Golf’, and has its place on The Open Championship rota every five years, the oldest and most prestigious golf tournament in the world.

My favourite story about the sportsmanship and camaraderie in golf comes from what was labelled the ‘Duel in the Sun’ at the 1977 Open Championship at the Turnberry course, also in Scotland and now owned by President Donald Trump. Two of the all-time greats of the game, Tom Watson and Jack Nicklaus, found themselves streaks ahead of the rest of the field and in a tense battle all weekend, with Watson eventually pipping Nicklaus to the Claret Jug on the final hole by one stroke.  That night, the pair were reportedly sitting in the clubhouse knocking back drinks and talking about the epic display they had put on for the crowd. ‘You got lucky,’ joked Nicklaus. ‘I had you all day,’ laughed Watson. A few hours later, a security guard, noticing some unusual activities on one of the greens, ran out onto the pitch black course to apprehend what he thought were a couple of hooligans. Instead, he found Nicklaus and Watson drunkenly staggering about, Watson with the trophy in hand and Nicklaus holding their sole club. They had decided to settle their argument like men, with a three-holes, one-club, midnight shootout. I have no way of verifying this story, but I so hope that it is true.

The Original 007

‘The name’s Bond, James Bond’. A famous catchphrase that Sean Connery almost never got to say. The anecdote goes that, when initially casting the titular character for this now world-famous spy and lady killer, creator Ian Fleming and the picture house production team didn’t want an already famous face to portray Bond. They, therefore, held an open call to which Sean Connery attended and absolutely bombed. In a stroke of luck, however, when discussing who they wanted at the end of the casting, Fleming happened to look out of the window of their offices and see Connery walking across the car park. ‘He walks like a panther,' said Fleming, commenting on Connery's  stride. 'Bring him back in for another audition’. The rest, as they say, is history. He nailed his second attempt and was given his license to kill.

The Kilt

“Is it true that you don’t wear anything underneath your kilt?” is one of the most frequently asked questions that a Scotsman gets from foreigners who are intrigued about our strange culture. Worn nowadays as a replacement for a tuxedo or a dinner suit at a black-tie event, no Scottish man is likely to ever look better than when donning the tartan skirt of his clan. I personally own one for formal use and have a second, more cheaply-made kilt, for partying and travelling. The looks that I receive when marching down the street in a foreign country with my pleats billowing in the breeze never get old, although most of them are unfortunately from people simply not familiar with what a kilt is as opposed to groups of girls getting hot under the collar. It is true, though, ladies. I don’t wear any underwear beneath my kilt.

Television

On 25th March 1925, Scottish inventor John Logie Baird gave the first public demonstration of televised silhouette images in motion. Cue the birth of the television. Within a year of this, he was demonstrating the transmission of the image of a face in motion and its popularity grew to a level that households around the world are now more likely to have televisions in them than hot running water. American’s spend on average five hours per day watching mind-numbing programming on the box, with hundreds of terrestrial and digital channels to choose from. Baird didn’t have this luxury, however. Rumour has it that he was pissed off after inventing it because there was nothing good on to watch.

Edinburgh Fringe Festival

For the entire month of August each year, the streets, pubs, clubs, and theatres of Edinburgh turn into a city-wide party when the world’s largest arts festival comes into town. The Fringe started in 1947 and there is no threshold as to whom can get involved and participate. All you have to do is rent out a performance space, come up with a ludicrous act, and the flyer like mental for people to pop their head around the door and watch your act. Categories of shows span across theatre; poetry; dance; circus; music, you name it.

What it’s most famous for, however, is the Edinburgh Comedy Awards, which has launched the careers of dozens of household comedy names. Previous recipients of the prestigious main prize include Stephen Fry; Hugh Lawrie; Al Murray; Steve Coogan; Dylan Moran; and Rich Hall but to name a few. There’s also acknowledgement for the funniest joke of The Fringe. Last year’s winner: “My dad has suggested that I register for a donor card. He’s a man after my own heart.”

Haggis

As much as we like to mess with far-too-enthusiastic Americans by telling them that a haggis is a three-legged creature that runs around the Scottish hills and Highlands, it’s actually just a savoury pudding made from the pluck of a sheep. That is, it’s the heart, liver, and lungs of the sheep minced with some spices and stuffed into the lining of its stomach. Sounds delicious, I know. When served with a side portion of neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes), however, it is absolutely delicious, and nothing takes me back to my childhood faster. It is the tradition for a haggis to be bagpiped in and addressed during a Burns Supper; evening events which take place on the 25th January each year to celebrate the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns.

So, in conclusion, what I’m really saying is that, if under some bizarre circumstances you happen to turn on your TV and see a kilt-donned Sean Connery driving a golf cart through the streets of Edinburgh on his way home from finishing an improv sketch show at the Fringe Festival, whilst washing down a mouthful of haggis with a bottle of Glenmorangie, then that’s pretty fucking Scottish.

What would you add to the list? Please subscribe to the mailing list and share your thoughts with us.

A Comprehensive Guide to Camping in the Wimbledon Queue [2016]

Wimbledon, England, UK • July 2016 • Length of Read: 12 Minutes

My friend and I camped over the middle-weekend of the 2016 Wimbledon Championships, in the hope of getting Centre Court tickets on Monday 4th July, when both men’s and women’s fourth round matches were taking place. For each day’s play, 500 tickets are available for Centre Court; Court 1; and Court 2, on a first-come, first-serve, basis. Due to outrageous demand however, in order to get these places in the queue, you have to camp for two nights prior to the day on which you actually wish to attend The Championships. Don’t think of it as camping though. Rather, think of it as a two-day-long pre-party.

Doug and I were coming from Scotland and, staying at a friend’s house on the Friday night in the upper-class postcode of SW20, arrived at Wimbledon Park, where the queue begins, at 9am on the Saturday morning. Our host had fed us with a delightful breakfast of poached eggs and asparagus on toast in anticipation of a hungry 48 hours ahead, and as we chowed down she busied herself by packing a cooler bag to take to the Henley Regatta, which was also occurring that sunny weekend.

“What exactly is the Henley Regatta?” I asked Doug during our taxi journey from the leafy suburb towards the grounds; eyeing up a leggy, tanned, Eastern European girl strolling swiftly along the pavement; tennis bag bouncing off her back as the stylish dress she wore fluttered gently in the breeze.

“I think it’s just an excuse for rich people to get super drunk during the day,” he mused, “with a little bit of rowing in the background.”

We had similar sized bags to this competitor ourselves, adhering strictly to ‘The Official Guide to Queueing’ published on the Wimbledon website, which stated: ‘There is a bag size restriction of 60cm x 45cm x 25cm (aircraft cabin size). We will not be able to accept bags larger than this recommended size. Also, due to space constraints, overnight queuers should use tents which accommodate a maximum of two persons.’ Joining the queue behind a father and son; two middle-aged Dutch men wearing blue jeans and pristine white blazers; and an English lad who looked like a cross between Gareth Bale and Tim Henman, it turned out that this rule is complete and utter bollocks. The first tent I saw was more comparable in size to the Sydney Opera House than that of what people slept in at festivals.

[QUEUE TIP #1 – Don’t worry about space. Bring as much shit as you want]

Because we had arrived on a Saturday, we were initially given queue cards for the Saturday play, and looking up from my bit of paper with #9745 on it, I couldn’t help but notice that there were more inflatables than in the swimming pool of a childrens’ holiday camp. People had brought blow-up mattresses; blow-up sofas; blow-up tables - I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were even a few blow-up dolls kicking about. As my 6’7” companion unfolded our barely-two-man tent, I looked over at the Dutch guys, each popping up their own individual home.

“I bet you the price of a ticket to Centre Court that you can’t keep that blazer white for the next 48 hours,” I challenged Pinot, the taller man of the pair.

“Why do you think we have two tents?” he chuckled. “One of them is acting as a closet to store our luggage and hang up our jackets in.”

Unfolding my camp chair, I took a seat beside them and cracked a beer. It may have only been 9:30am, but the sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds and, as Martin, Pinot’s partner in crime, so poignantly put it: “We’re on our holiday – where there’s no etiquette for drinking.”

[QUEUE TIP #2 – The Official Guide to Queueing states that you are only allowed to bring in two beers, or one bottle of wine, per person. This is a lie. If one reversed an 18-wheeler haulage truck into the grounds and started rolling kegs off the back, nobody would bat an eyelid. Stock up for the weekend]

We spent the morning talking complete nonsense, until a guy setting up his tent opposite got out a mallet and started hammering the ground like he were Thor from The Avengers. Unable to hear one another over the racket, the Dutch guys decided to head into Wimbledon Village for lunch whilst Will, the real name for the man who looked like Henman’s double, Doug, and myself, crowded around the radio to hear the remarkable news that Djokovic had been knocked out by Sam Querrey. Cheers erupted from all four corners of the park.

[QUEUE TIP #3 – If you’re a Novak fan, keep it to yourself]

Mid-afternoon, the Honorary Stewards wound their way down the lines of tents, which had grown to about 5 rows of 100, to replace the Saturday cards we held with queue cards for the Monday. We were given #290 and #291, comfortably falling within the first 500 needed to get the option for Centre Court. The line opposite had been getting nervous however, it being unclear as to where the final ticket would actually be falling. An Italian couple about five tents down from us on this opposing row dropped to their knees in delight when they were handed their equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket.

“#490,” the man screamed at the top of his lungs. “YES!” I ran across and gave him a hug as Martin started chanting.

“Are you excited for the Italy game tonight?” I asked him, his national team scheduled to play against Germany in the quarter finals of Euro 2016 that evening.

“What game?” he replied, looking slightly confused.

“The football game,” I laughed.

“Alas, Federer is the only one for me,” he responded, emotionally.

I turned to look at his girlfriend, a sense of disappointment spreading across her face, and wondered how much longer it would be until she would be requesting: ‘new balls please’.

[QUEUE TIP #4 – To be in the first 500 persons, and get tickets for Centre Court, arrive by 12pm at the latest, two days before]

Once the Dutch guys had returned from a three hour lunch, we spent the rest of the afternoon playing card games and drinking further beers. Getting peckish, we decided to get some dinner. Phoning the local takeaway, we placed an order, told them our location, and simply waited. You read that right. At Wimbledon, you can get fast food delivered to the campsite. Unbelievable.

[QUEUE TIP #5 – You can get takeaway food delivered to your tent]

Just in time for dessert, as we polished off our pizzas a kid came round selling cupcakes; the expression on her face one of: ‘my parents have forced me to do this in order to complete the requirements for a Girl Guide Badge’.

“Would anyone like to buy a gluten free treat?” the fourteen year-old asked, meekly.

“Do they come with weed in them?” I joked.

“Oh sorry, are you celiac?” she responded, concerned. “Because they do have wheat in them unfortunately.”

As Pinot burst into hysterics, tears rushing down his face, she looked at us with a blank waxwork-like demeanour.

Eventually composing ourselves, we only managed to squeeze in one further game of cards before yet another kid came round; this time a little boy selling chocolate bars to help raise funds for a school trip.

“Are you off to build mud huts in Kenya, or something like that?” I queried, handing over some coins and gesturing for him to keep the change.

“No, we’re going skiing in Courchevel.”

Great, I’d just given a rich kid further funding towards having a jolly in the Alps. We polished off the beers, and as people started tucking in for the night on their luxurious inflatable beds, I curled up in my sleeping bag next to Doug, tossing and turning on the cold, hard, ground; my sunburn flaming up.

[QUEUE TIP #6 – Regardless of the weather forecast, bring sun cream and an umbrella. This is the UK we’re talking about after all]

I awoke extremely early the next morning with a dead shoulder blade, bruised hip, and wet jumper. As I unzipped the awning to reveal another baking July sun, I noticed Martin was already up, and shuffling around outside.

“How was the pub?” I asked. Shortly after we’d been conned into buying chocolate off the kid, Martin and Pinot had headed to the Auld Fields for dinner and to watch the game. This pub is only a five minute walk from the campsite and its food is absolutely ace.

“Great,” he beamed. “We met a gorgeous Swiss girl who is staying in tent 102 with her father.” By this point, everyone outside our little group had started being referred to as their ticket number.

“What was you opening line?”

“Can I use the charge socket by your chair?”

“And did it work?”

“Well I’ve now got full battery on my phone if that’s what you mean,” he giggled, before picking up a towel and wandering off to the nearby Boat Club, where there were showers available for £5 between the hours of 5am-8am.

[QUEUE TIP #9 – It is heavily warned that, if you leave your tent for more than 45 minutes at a time, the Honorary Stewards will remove it and your ticket will be confiscated. In reality however, they are also there to have a good time, and unless you take the piss by going to stay in a hotel for the night, they won’t really care. Loads of people went out for the whole afternoon, and some even went night-clubbing on the Saturday. None got kicked out]

I followed Martin twenty minutes later into the dilapidated building at the perimeter of the park, hanging up my clothes in a locker room which seemed to have maintained the same décor and amenities since The Championships began in 1877. He was still there in the communal showers when I arrived, and only after I’d washed, got changed, returned to my tent, and had breakfast, did he then eventually appear back.

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked, genuinely puzzled as to what took him so long.

“Getting my money’s worth,” he winked. “Plus, there are some areas of your body that are just simply inappropriate to wash when others are present.”

“Lovely.”

[QUEUE TIP #10 – Pay the £5 for the communal shower. You don’t want to be that person on Centre Court sweating out three-day-old body odour, especially when most others around you are dressed like they’ve just stepped off a private yacht]

The rest of our Sunday followed similar suit to its predecessor; by which I mean we sat around in the sun, drank more beer, and talked more gibberish. In the words of Ron Livingston from the classic comedy Office Space: “I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything that I thought it could be.” Will was camping on his own, having made friends in the queue in previous years, and we were already planning our visit to The 2017 Championships. I was initially skeptical about spending 48 hours stuck in a queue in a field, however at that moment I would happily have spent 72 hours, and we hadn’t even reached the reason for us all being there yet.

[QUEUE TIP #9 – Make sure you go to the bathroom before entering the main queue on the day of play. There are minimal opportunities to go again until you're actually in the grounds. Don’t bother bringing toilet roll, as the latrines are kept well-stocked, however I’d advise you pack some hand sanitiser]

On the day you wish to enter the grounds, you are woken up at 5am by the Honorary Stewards. Campers are given an hour to get their shit together, deflate there inflatables, put their tents into luggage storage, and line-up back in numerical ticket order. Then begins the long, meandering, journey out the park and along the edge of Wimbledon Golf Course; passing entertainment-lit stands; welcome signs; and overly-buoyant employees, until your ticket is exchanged for a wristband at the security gate: The golden lettering of ‘Centre Court’ glistened off the solid blue background as I fastened it on tightly. It was 7am at this point, and we had to wait until 8:45am until the metal detectors were turned on. After what felt like only minutes however, we were sneaking in our cans of Pimm’s which had been purchased from the local supermarket; not willing to pay the £8.30 per glass they were charging inside.

At the turnstiles, we lined up at those offering tickets for Centre Court whilst hordes of fans looked on in jealousy. Handing over £104 each, we then entered the hallowed grounds and immediately looked up at the giant yellow board which showed the order of play for Monday 4th July 2016. First up on Centre Court was Roger Federer; followed by Serena Williams; followed by our compatriot, Andy Murray. What a time to be alive.