The hills were coated with the the lush green of moist grass, among which the heath shrubs burst with the bright pink hue of their blooming flowers that competed with the emerald waves. Here and there, if one tended to look carefully, blueberries could be seen, dark, ripe and with the promise of sweet nectar. Naked granite rock showed on the crest of hills, their motley and rough texture chiseled by the erosion of time and the persecuting assaults of the weather.

In the deep blue summer sky, fluffy clouds rolled lazily, swept by the wind, and they cast faint moving shadows upon the moor. It was the last days of summer and the breeze was softly perfumed with the smell of earth which mingled with indistinct floral scents.

A doe scurried up a distant slope and disappeared  beyond the tip of an hill so quickly that I thought the vision had been a figment of my imagination. A minuscule caterpillar clung to a swaying blade of grass which glistened with the morning dew. Donkeys roamed aimlessly across the grassland.

We had arrived at this halcyon scene, on Saturday morning, as we were setting the marks and signs for the Annual Greenock Cut Bog stomp, wrapped in the warmth of the September sun. We  passed through the dips and rises of the moor, now following the barely distinct line of a path, now climbing up a steep elevation in the ground, now walking through a mire. The height of the hills afforded, time and again, a wide vista of the surrounded glens and the valley of the Clyde, the Inverkip village and its marina sprawling along the shore, the straight line of the railway, Greenock town, encroaching upon the hills, the dark sheets of water reflecting the cerulean tinges of the sky, the distant shapes of the mountain range.

It is with confused recollection that I bring to mind the next day as it seemed to all had happened in a blur. It was early morning and a hard drizzle had already set, rendered worse by the strong gusts of the brisk wind.

The truth is that the downtime before the start of the race was the worst for me. I was in a state of extreme agitation and could not stand still. Doubts and questions creeped into my mind as whether the training I has undergone through the year would be sufficient. Would I make a fool of myself? Would I collapse at reaching the top of the hill like I had the previous year?

There was something remarkable and awe inspiring in the sight of volunteers from the Greenock cut Center and the Erskine charity milling about in preparation of the event like a small army preparing for a war campaign; Marshals getting ready and receiving their gear and the latest instructions, the erection of the gazebo at the finish line, the signing up of late hour contestants who had not managed to register online. Tea and coffee was brewing. Someone had brought doughnuts.

I was part of the first wave when the race started. The fittest dash forward and up the hill with exceptional speed as if they possessed the strength of young gods craving for glory while the rest of us, dazed by exertion, scrambled up the steep slope, breathing hoarsely and our heart pounding wildly into our ribcage. Or was I imagining that the others felt the same as me in that excruciating moment?

the whole world was wet. If earlier on I had been shivering in the cold drizzle, it did not matter anymore. The low temperature was more a blessing than anything else as it made up for the heat generated by running and sweating became a minor worry.

I ran. I walked. And I ran again.

I made my way up the rises of the moor. I tumbled down the dips of the track. I fought my way through bogs that sucked at my shoes and splattered my legs with mud. While my lungs seemed to be filled with fire, other runners raced past me in effortless sprints, runners from the first wave, runners from the second wave, two of which were clad as Batman and Robin and there cape swirled  incongruously in the strong wind . Still, I kept going on, relentlessly, if at  slower pace than I wished.

I had passed the most strenuous parts of the race. The terrain became less steep and, in some places, almost flat and, before I knew it, I finally reached the finish line, exhilarated that I had completed my second Bog stomp and achieving a better time than in the first one by 20 minutes.

Unsurprisingly the first and second place of the race belonged, once again to the son and father duo, Kieran and Richard Cooper.

But the real hero of the day were the Marshals, rangers from the Greenock cut visitor center and volunteers who, by sheer dedication, patience and resilience, braved the harsh weather and were there, in selfless readiness, when an accident occurred during the event.