15 tubs of creamed rice

Often, when you run along way, you go through a roller coaster ride of extreme highs followed by deeply depressing lows and doubt, followed again by a high... and so on.

In the West Highland Way Race on Saturday, Iain went into a low and stayed there for the entire 96 miles. Despite this, he finished in a fantastic time of 21:26:30 and finishing 13th overall.

He did have some semi-highs. As I ran with him across Rannoch Moor, his sense of humour was still intact as he recalled his 2004 WHW run where he just couldn't work out the dynamics of wind direction and the correct penis-bearing for not weeing on himself.

There was little to no wind this time, which made it midge hell, but overall, the weather was ideal, really. Overcast with only a few showers, the air was cool, yet for some reason Iain's ability to regulate his temperature had abandoned him.

I wasn't concerned about his hydration levels, all his bodily systems were working fine. The problem was that every time he felt hot he would erupt into a violent cascade of vomiting. If you watch Little Britain, think Maggie's response to mince pies made by the vicar and his partner.

The problem was that he just didn't know he was cold, so when his skin started showing cold bumps I would convince him to put a shirt on. This unfortunately resulted in him feeling too hot - and hot meant sick.

So the shirt was shunned for most of the race... but the anti-chaffing nipple tape remained just in case, prompting a few comments at checkpoints such as "nice bra".

His second major vomit was at the top of the Devil's Staircase. The creamed rice that, earlier on, was taking favour, had taken on a weird taste, but at Kinlochleven he managed to find a food that would stay down - banana strawberry smoothie and bread rolls. This was crucial. He was so weak that if he couldn't get food in at this stage, he wouldn't make the final 14 miles.

Luckily his concern over his inability to keep food down masked his foot pain, where large blisters had formed under his toenails. Nevertheless, the rocky terrain of those last few miles reminded him of it every time he kicked a stone.

His last mile and a half on the road leading towards Fort William was a semi-high, I'm sure. He positively sprinted to the end, lured on by his support team, Tom, Vicky and Bob their dog, in their white van that held the beer he said he'd crack open at the end.

He never drank that beer. Instead he spent another 10 minutes vomiting in the shower after I convinced him to have one - "it'll make you feel better".

Apparently I had the water too hot...

(Written by a very proud wife)