Ten hours of agony was worth it for the fun and the money

The Kiltwalk is Scotland’s largest walking event. Four sponsored walks take place annually.

The Aberdeen walk is held in June, Dundonians will get their opportunity to take part in August and the final one is held in Edinburgh in September.

More than 120,000 gallus souls have taken part in the various Kiltwalks over the last seven years and raised more than £37 million for charity in the process.

Just over a week ago, I took part in the Glasgow walk. And I survived to tell the tale … just about.

We got off to a promising start, though the biblical rain did seem an ominous sign of what was to come.

The matching ponchos that my boyfriend and I had donned attracted some stares but I’m sure folk were just admiring how well-prepared and disarmingly stylish we looked.

It was around mile seven that I started to experience the five stages of grief.

Denial was first up. Surely the signs must be wrong, I thought. We’d been walking for hours and it felt like a cruel oversight that we weren’t yet into the double digits.

Anger quickly followed. Will this rain ever stop? My feet are wet. What sociopath designed Portaloos? Why have we, as a society, agreed that a tiny plastic coffin that looks like something out of Trainspotting is an acceptable place to spend a penny?

Depression followed and that stage made up the bulk of the trudge towards Loch Lomond.

I can’t do this, I thought. It’s too far. My body has been crafted from beef Hula Hoops and cheese, it’s not cut out for any form of endurance exercise.

Acceptance did follow these stages but it would perhaps be more accurately described as resignation. The only way to go was forward, onward to the end, despite the increasing stiffness in my legs and my ever-darkening mood.

There were welcome sights on the way that served as a useful distraction. A group of Fifers passed us wearing ingenious rainbow umbrella hats. We were also overtaken by a woman in an inflatable chicken costume.

Being out-paced by poultry might have been a low point were it not for the fact that I find silly costumes, particularly inflatable ones, a cheering sight in all circumstances.

We were overtaken once more (can you sense a theme here?) by two women who were dancing to the 1990s classics blaring out from one of their backpacks.

It was clear most people had either undertaken some form of training before the event, or – annoyingly – were just the kind of folk that incorporated exercise into their overall lifestyle and were therefore much better equipped than me for the challenge we had collectively embarked upon.

At various points there were lovely volunteers gathered to cheer the walkers on. They shouted out words of motivation which were very much appreciated.

Although I did scowl every time one of them helpfully informed us how far there was to go – as my boyfriend was under strict instructions to not give me information on our progress until it was less than a mile.

On the way, we did encounter a few participants who appeared to be feeling the pain as much as I was. The only people we ever overtook were the walking wounded – those tending to shredded feet and stretching out legs that had seized up in protest.

It will come as a surprise to absolutely nobody that I am not the easiest person to walk 23 miles with.

As we passed the halfway point, I needed songs, cuddles and a regular supply of sweeties to stop me from sitting down and not getting back up again.

Never was the temptation to simply give up stronger than when we passed a team of girls who were sitting on the pavement and checking the bus times to get back to Glasgow.

They’d obviously decided their weekend would be better spent drinking Lambrini with their feet up and honestly, who could blame them?

The last mile felt impossible. By this point, we weren’t walking so much as shuffling. My legs felt like they were encased in concrete. I was cursing whoever came up with the idea to do this (me) and trying to assess precisely how much agony

I’d be in the next day (a lot).

But we did it. It took us nearly 10 hours but we got there, and we raised more £750 for our respective charities in the process.

Don’t let my whining about sore legs stop you from signing up if you were considering doing one of the upcoming walks.

Despite the aching limbs, it was great fun. Learn from my mistakes though – remember to eat a few vegetables and do some preparatory meandering before the big day and you’ll be grand.