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Well, Fiona told me I had to keep blogging because she was bored and wanted something to read. I'd stopped because it was supposed to be a blog about running and, er, I'd stopped running (long story short: abandoned training in an attempt to save the knee so was only fit enough for a 4 hour 40 min marathon but hey, my leg didn't actually drop off).

But I guess I can find other stuff to dribble on about. At the moment I'm supposed to be training for the Rat Race which is in five weeks. I've done:

• a gentle gym session (2km on the treadmill brought the knee on again...Jesus, what's it's problem?)
• a walk in the Pentlands, laudably described elsewhere
• some random swimming/gossiping
• a weekend hiking and camping

The last was good fun, as both a training and bonding experience with my Rat Race team mates Lee and Jo. (Despite their names, they are both female.) We'd scheduled the weekend ages ago so were lucky enough to have a good forecast. Jo had planned a great route up from Glen Clova and we followed a delightfully pretty stream past sheep and ponies ('Ruth! It's nudging me!' cried Jo as an enthusiastic Shetland pony investigated her rucksack for snacks). If it had been just a little warmer we could have taken a dip in some inviting pools.

Then a steep climb led us over the shoulder and we paused for a breather and left our rucksacks in a handy ditch before nipping up to the summit of Broadcairn and back. I still can't decide if I want to become a serious munro bagger - it seems a daunting task and not necessarily the best way to enjoy the highlands - but if if I ever do, then this inaccessible but otherwise easy peak is ticked off. It lived up to its name, with the top covered in rocky stones. As in stones that rocked due to being precariously balanced. Obviously all stones are rocky in the sense that they are made of rock...

It took us a good hour and a half up and down but it was good to be rid of the rucksacks for a bit and to get my hands dirty.

Back on track, we walked along the ridge to the south east of Loch Muick (pronounced 'Mick') and down a steep track half way along the loch, tracking back at lake-level to camp at the south end. There were horse tracks along a lot of the path and I'd love to go back and find a stables that would let me ride through this countryside.

We'd walked for some seven hours and covered about 11 or 12 miles (Jo's estimates varied wildly and the lack of roads makes it difficult to map online). Walking with a pack is exhausting but the advantage was that we could set up camp all alone in this beautiful spot. With drinkable stream water and tuna pasta and iced fingers to sustain us, we fell asleep ludicrously early.

The next day dawned damply, but it brightened a little and we decided that instead of tackling the peaks, which were covered in cloud, we'd walk around the loch on the lower path. This we duly did, speeding along the level path and passing a house which belongs to the Queen and has a bothy in the garden for walkers. Al later informed me that he and his pals once nearly set fire to the bothy, and thus the nearby house as well. Anyway, the house was shut up so we couldn't peek through the window and see what sort of sofa the Queen has.

The six mile circuit brought us back to camp, where we packed up and trekked back up the ridge that had been looming over us threateningly all day. We took it steadily and, apart from one slippery stream to cross, it was fine. Retracing our path in from the day before was a doddle and we arrived back at the car ahead of schedule. Luckily the Forth Road Bridge had predicted this and was able to supply some useful roadworks to delay us half an hour.

Back in Leith I delivered Al's camping gear back to him and was persuaded to stay for dinner. A lack of clean clothes meant that I did do clad in his t-shirt and shorts - a style that, with my new short hair-do, frankly made me look like a boy. But the boys have wussed out of the Rat Race, so clearly it is a job for the girls.