This year North Leeds Fell Runners turned 10 years old. We decided to use the Ilkley Skyline route as our celebration run. Over half our wonderful members and club-friends turned up to the Hermit Inn to run the route in groups, solo, backwards, in relays and with baby-backpacks. With chips, beers and a club-colour cake we basked in some early autumn sunshine and celebrated a glorious decade of fell running together.
our president and chair (OK not really, but our best supporters, Nel and Bobbie)The steady group before the off. Some doing a relay, some doing the full shebang. Second relay team ready to go. Martin and Mayla walked the whole routeSteadies at the Twelve ApostlesOur amazing cake bakersSteadies (faster steadies)The stones were passable! Thus saving us an extra five miles. The quick group motoring up the final climb to the Hermit. Phew. Time for a pint and chips. Or a pint of chips.
North Leeds Fell Runners was established in 2014 by a group of runners who wanted to set up an accessible, friendly club that was only affiliated for fell running. The club came to life during a long car trip to recce Langdale Horseshoe, appropriately, and the blue and black vest was fairly quickly devised and drawn. We added a blue red kite to celebrate the kites that fly over us in North Leeds.
The club would welcome anyone and the emphasis would be on informality while following EA rules of course. For that reason, we still allow non-members to join our training runs without requiring membership (though as our second-claim membership costs only £5, it would be nice if you signed up).
Since then we have set up two annual fell races; Kettlewell Anniversary, and Rombald’s Romp, and launched the Ilkley Skyline challenge. We have welcomed members from Canada, Sardinia, France and even East, South and West Leeds (!). We pride ourselves in being a welcoming and friendly club, and try to keep our Tuesday training sessions on the fells year round (please note that headtorches are mandatory in winter). We also provide fantastic Thursday structured training sessions in the North Leeds area and encourage spin-out groups for sharing other hobbies like cycling and climbing. Our membership fees are highly reasonable and we have (in our opinion) the best vest in fell running. Join us!
A few years ago I was out doing a recce for leg 5 on the Leeds Country Way. I was chatting with my partner and didn’t notice a little rock. I suddenly tumbled over it and felt immense pain . We were at the middle point of the run so I had to get to the end where the car was . It was so painful to walk on and I knew I had done something bad. Lo and behold I had fractured the side of my foot. I was booted up for 6 weeks feeling very low.
Fast forward a few years and I agreed to run leg 5 again. I felt good, fit and I was enjoying the pace . My partner, Marc from Fellandale, was a good match and we were strong together.
Two miles to go and we were determined not to let the pair behind us overtake, however I tumbled over a rock … again. I knew I had done something serious but I stupidly carried on. Endorphins are a natural painkiller so I just thought I would get to the end and deal with it later. Marc was a great support and kept saying it would be fine if we walked. But I just wanted to get to the end.
The following day I went to Otley hospital for a X ray. And I had exactly the same fracture but on the other foot. Another boot, another few miserable weeks of missing my favourite pastime. I do keep telling myself that all will be well and there are some people far worse off than me… I will mend, I will be patient, I will run again and I will be where I was.
I WILL NOT DO LEG 5 AGAIN I WILL NOT DO LEG 5 AGAIN I WILL NOT DO LEG 5 AGAIN
Muker Show and Ilkley Incline, 4pm and 7pm, Wednesday 4th September
It’s not that unusual to do two races over a weekend, one on Saturday one on Sunday. But two races in the same day, that sounds a bit excessive. Where do you get the puff to do that, let alone find two races with conveniently staggered start times and get between them?
Three races in one day would of course be completely ridiculous. Not that that puts off those hardy types from Ripon Runners! On a Saturday every August, thirty or more of them do Fountains Abbey parkrun at 9am, then travel over to the Dales for the 4-mile Littondale road race at 1pm, and finish off with the short Arncliffe Gala fell race later in the afternoon. The dream is to do all three in a combined time of under an hour. To be fair many of them are walking the fell race but no matter, they all add great humour and colour to the day, respect to them all!
But that’s a parkrun (which of course isn’t a race, it’s a timed run…), a flat road race, then a fell race. What about a combination of fell races on the same day? I’ve only come across three examples. At Ambleside Sports in July you can do the Rydal Round (aka Fairfield Horseshoe) at midday, followed by the 1.5 mile Guides race at 3.30pm. You can tell who’s doing both when they blow-up on the climb of the latter. Closer to home the Gargrave Show and Burnsall Sports are often on the same Saturday in August, with fell race start times of midday and 4.30pm respectively, and just a short drive in between. I only know this because in 2022 I was chatting with race winner Nathan after Burnsall when he casually mentioned he’d won Gargrave a few hours earlier. Some double.
The third example I kind-of stumbled across for the first time in 2018, and on Wednesday got the chance to repeat for the first time since. Here’s how the day went:
Having booked the afternoon off work I was on my way from Bradford just before 1pm, heading for the Muker Show fell race in Swaledale. This is organised by Bofra and started at 4pm. I decided to go via Ribblehead and Hawes, thinking there’d be fewer delays, but in true A65 fashion got held up behind agricultural vehicles on those bends before Settle. This meant I didn’t come down the steep Buttertubs Pass until after 3pm, but there was still time to dump the car on the edge of the village, pay my £10 to enter the show, get a race number and have a quick look at the course. This was my fourth visit to Muker. It’s not just a great race but also a great show, well-attended with interesting stalls and produce on a sheep-y theme, all to the evocative soundtrack of the local brass band.
The fell race is a highlight of the day, helped by the surrounding topography. You get a great view of the whole race from the show field, which is banked on one side, lending a “stadium” effect to the start/finish. The whole crowd really gets behind the race and gives you some big cheers. The good news was that the weather was dry and the river low, which meant we were going to run through it, twice (in high water the course is diverted half a mile upstream to a bridge, changing the character of the race).
4pm we’re off and 83 of us dash madly downhill through the crowds to the river, which we cross for the first time just 30 seconds in. It’s a narrow gap through the trees into the water and like a herd of wildebeest we’re through, many using the rope slung across the river as a guide, but I risk a quieter line to the left, and get away with it.
A minute’s climb up a track and then we’re onto the steep fell – the question is, who can walk up this straight 500 feet the quickest, not even the guys at the front can run it. I felt I climbed pretty well, not too far behind the best in my category. But the trick with these races is to transition from steep climbing to steep descending – two very different disciplines – in the blink of an eye, and here I get a bit found out. It’s 1 minute of flat running along the top then you sweep back down to the river on a diagonal trod, all slippery limestone blocks hidden in the bracken. I lose a few places then steel myself for the second river crossing.
No hiding in the crowd this time, the gaggle of spectators have all eyes on you, so I employ the safety of the rope and pull myself across. I momentarily think I have a chance of catching Stephen in front, who has ended up on the wrong side of the rope, but he holds on in the run in. You just have to soak up the cheers as you run through the thick funnel of spectators to the finish. My time 15 minutes 3 seconds, 14th place, and of course you collapse on the line and feel like you’ll never run again.
Until 10 minutes later when you realise you’re sort-of back to normal. The other runners come in, then a wander to the refreshments tent for tea and cake (Wensleydale cheese on tea loaf, very nice), followed by the prizegiving. A shower comes in and the field empties rapidly in the direction of the village. Already, the brass band have taken up station in front of the pub and a big crowd has gathered for some communal singing, a stirring scene. Having caught a couple of numbers it dawns on me that it’s now after 5pm and it’s a long drive home, but I’ve actually only done 15 minutes of running today and there’s still a bit left in the tank….
Impulsive decision and I’m back to the car. I’m a notoriously slow driver, particularly on twisty mountain roads, but I’m now on a mission. I don’t look at the scenery much on the return drive over Buttertubs. Equally the narrow road over Fleet Moss and down Upper Wharfedale. A bit of driving music goes on, a few corners are cut and the foot put down. Eventually I get to the Skipton roundabout at half 6 and think there’s a good chance this unusual haste will be worthwhile.
6.45pm and I’m pulling up in the familiar surrounds of Wells Road above Ilkley, and there’s a convenient space amongst the many parked cars. Dash out with a fiver to another registration tent (that of Ilkley Harriers this time) and get another race number. And a couple of complimentary biscuits which I think are meant to be for later but are very welcome now, thank you. There isn’t time to take the old number off, so I just pin the new one on top. Obviously I’m still in my race kit so none of that usual pre-race faffing about. Just retie my laces, jog over to the start line at the bottom of Keighley Road and almost immediately it’s 7pm and the Ilkley Incline is underway.
This is an unusual race, 1 mile uphill only. The previous time I did it (2018, also just after Muker) I went off too quickly and died towards the end where the course flattens out. So this time I was more cautious and that seemed to pay off, it was nice to overtake rather than be overtaken on the run-in. It’s all about the pacing I think, like an uphill 1500 metres. Somewhere in all this I get to say hello to a gaggle of NLFRs and old club-mates from Valley Striders. Plus some knowing nods from some of the usual Bofra guys that had given Muker a miss, but had spotted my unusual double race number layering system.
Top tip for Ilkley Incline – take a jacket, so you can do a bit of a longer warm-down jog on the moor after, rather than just coming straight down. I went via the Badger Stone and was back at the car in 25 minutes. Of the 3 runs I did in the day, that was the longest. 2 races, 2.5 miles/1000ft climbing in total, plus a warm-down jog. And a lively 50-mile drive in between. A better way of spending a Wednesday afternoon than sitting in the office.
Tuesday 20 August, 5 miles (ish), 801 feet (exactly)
Every summer, three Ward generations (myself, my Dad and my son) retreat to the Lake District and spend a few days together in Dad’s motorhome. This year we also convinced my brother to extract himself from the comfort of his home in Brighton to join us, with promises of refreshing dips in Blea Tarn under cloudless skies and jaw dropping views of the Milky Way at night. As we met up at the Great Langdale campsite on our first day it became apparent that rain-laden clouds would put an end to any of these plans. We squelched our way to the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel to make plans for our stay.
I always have a quick look on the Fellrunner website before a trip like this to see if anything is going on and found that the Hawkshead Show was on the following day and it had a fell race. Quick glance at the details: 5 miles or so, should be over and done with fairly quickly. I suggested this as an activity and there was agreement all round. I could get a run in and the rest of the gang could see me off, have a stroll around looking at the livestock and huge vegetables, then return and cheer me over the finish line.
As we approached the showground, it became clear that the rain from the previous day and night had turned the showground and the main car park into a quagmire. We had to turn around with all the other traffic and go to the alternative parking field in the village. Some conflicting information about the race start time meant I wasn’t sure whether I was actually going to be able to run or not, but it turned out I was just in time to register. After a quick change in a puddle behind one of the tents, I made my way to the start line.
Now the weather had been OK up until this point, but as the runners were gathering for the pre-race brief the heavens opened. This downpour was enough for a lot of the spectators (including my entourage) to decide to give the race start a miss and head for the main tent to see some prize-winning onions.
Final headcount, then we were off.
The course was composed of an initial trudge up the local lump that is Latterbarrow, then back down the other side towards the shores of Windermere before coming round in a big loop back to Hawkshead. There were a few fields to cross, nice bits of woodland trails and some wide tracks, so a bit of everything. There were also plenty of rock slabs and exposed tree roots slick with liquid mud to keep you concentrating.
Although I have only run in a couple, I do like show races. The show only seems to amplify those endearing elements of the fell race that we all love, the low-key-ness and local, small-scale feel. At the first show race I did (Ingleton Gala), the woman selling the tickets asked where we had come from. When I told her “Leeds” she was shocked. “Ooooh that’s a long way!” she exclaimed, and here was me thinking that Ingleton was fairly local! Similarly at Hawkshead, when registering, I overheard one of the race organisers saying what a great turnout it was this year (43 ran, although to be fair to them it looks like only 26 ran last year). Also, I think you get more first timers/people that don’t usually run on the fells getting involved. Lots of U/As on the results list suggested that this may be the case, and chatting to the guy that finished after me it turns out he is a mountain biker and this was his first fell race.
So race over, we went looking for something to eat and drink. This turned out to be a bit tricky for my (vegan) brother. The only place we could find was the chip van which had a huge seemingly static queue (possibly all vegans too).
Me: “I’m surprised they don’t have more vegan food at this.”
My brother: “Michael, agricultural shows like this are the antithesis of veganism.”
Me: “Oh, I suppose they are.”
So that was our cue to leave. My brother never did find a vegan lunch that day. He had to settle for a cheese and onion pasty from Coniston Co-Op.
The Pennines are host to some of the most stunning and scenic trails in the country, and Pennine Trails dedicated a whole flipping trail marathon to them!
Starting in the woods of Hurstwood in Worsthorne, the marathon takes you along the trails of Gorple to Top Withins passing Bronte Waterfall, with a stop through the National Trust park of Hardcastle Crags. All very familiar ground to most of our members. Thankfully the wind of the previous day had calmed a little and the sun poked through occasionally. It was good weather for running.
As always with off-road runs you can never expect the mileage to be accurate. When it says marathon, it’s a country marathon so just over 27 miles. Country folk have different measuring tools I’m sure!
I managed 5 hours 52 minutes and bagged first female vet 60 (no one needs to know I was the only FV60).
Great route, beautiful scenery, hard going and fun. I would recommend it if you fancy a long run….
Time Trialling is, in its very essence, a race against yourself. You have an individual start time, you depart the line alone, you push against your own capacity and race the clock: you have a lonesome journey through the course, unaccompanied other than the occasional passing by or passing of other riders, a purely solipsistic voyage to the finish. Of course, for those contesting a podium place, there are other people to consider, but fortunately I’ve never been burdened with such possibilities. The only time of any consequence is my own, and even that is arguably inconsequential.
But where am I in all of this? Several months ago I acquired a leg injury. I incurred painful damage to the adductor muscle in my right leg, having torn it while making an awkward and powerful high step rock climbing. I was completely unaware at the time until I woke in the middle of the night in significant discomfort, but it’s an ailment that hasn’t been quick to depart. Progress with rehabilitation has been made, but it remains slow. Squeeze the pillows between my legs while sitting on the sofa: that was the instruction from the physio. I can at least roll over in bed without having to manhandle my own leg to relieve the strain and avoid the stabbing pains now. But running, never mind fell racing, remains firmly off the cards. Cycling however doesn’t seem to aggravate the injury at all, maybe because it is a fixed axis of movement with feet clipped into pedals with no need for torsional stability. There’s normal bike racing, but with its categories, licenses, teams and propensity for bikes worth more than my car (admittedly that’s not saying much), but I have never been tempted. But time trialling seems different. It is the cottage industry of bike racing, as far as I can tell. Village halls, keen enthusiasts, races that accommodate all abilities and ages: it definitely seems a kindred spirit to the fell racing I miss so dearly. And now I have found myself ensnared by this niche subdivision of bike riding.
What I have also been discovering is that the race against myself seems to stretch over much more than the 25 mile courses I’ve been riding. For fell races, I have a shopping bag that lives in the boot of my car containing the various elements of the mandatory kit required for the aforementioned events: a set of waterproofs, a hat, some gloves, a compass, a whistle. I might have to procure a map in advance, but as long as I’ve filled my water bottles, thrown in a cereal bar, and remembered the right shoes, there isn’t really much preparation required. You arrive and park in a field somewhere, fill out the standard photocopied A5 entry form, hand over a few quid, receive your number and pins, and off you go. Even pinning the number on is easier – bang in the middle on the front of my running vest, no assistance needed to achieve an aerodynamically compliant attachment. All this suits me well. There’s always a rush – be it a morning or evening race – to get there, get registered, use the facilities and get to the start line, and hopefully with a warm up squeezed in somewhere too. It is no great logistical challenge.
But when it comes to time trialling, so far at least, it seems rather different. Now I have a bike to sort out. I have to enter weeks in advance. I even have to make space in the car itself (oh the humanity!). With limited time available, I find myself time trialling almost every element of the preparation as well. For my last two TTs, the week beforehand has been a blur of past-midnight tinkering and bike fixing. I have an hour and a half on Tuesday to actually try the bike I’ve bought to race on. I probably should have actually ridden it before race day, but with local streets littered with broken glass and other tyre-slashing debris, the fast but delicate race tyres look a little too fragile for the local offerings. Alas now with the first race of the season approaching, I must run the gauntlet. The tyres survive the test ride but the rest of the time was spent trying to adjust the spaceship-like carbon handlebars at the side of the road. The futuristic control station seems to have been flying a little too close to the sun. Stripped bolts, hairline cracks, and splodges of various resins concealing a variety of concerns are all revealed as I try to cajole the bars into a ridable formation, something I do not achieve. Each adjustment is somehow worse than the last, and my faith in these aerospace appendages crashes out of orbit. Heralding more red flags than a communist conference – especially for someone who had their face rearranged after the spontaneous structural failure of a bike component the year before – I concede that I need to sort a suitable replacement. This is a small inconvenience that consists of changing the base bars, adding different extensions, swapping over the shifters, swapping over the brake levers, changing all the cables, adjusting the brakes and gears, wrapping the bars with new bar tape, and replacing the barrel adjuster on the downtube which seems to have snapped. Exactly what you want to happen on your cursory “I’ll just check that the bike is fine” ride, a few days before the race. I yearn for the “shopping bag in the boot of the car” method of preparation.
A few hasty online orders for spare parts and several late nights of mechanical toil later, the bike appears to be ready.
Nothing goes smoothly of course. The barrel adjuster was seized and would not submit to bolt removal tools, which in turn meant a fiasco of drilling, tapping threads and re-riveting. The brake levers were of a design unfamiliar to me, which led to an excruciating hour of teasing cables into their sheaths, before realising I had been doing it in the wrong order and would never had succeeded with my method until I saw the error of my ways. And all the while, each step of mechanical intervention manages to reveal further concern. The bike, it appears, was merely a vessel for the mechanical neglect of the previous owner (here, I must remind myself about people in glass houses, my own maintenance regimes usually landing somewhere between spartan and non-existent).
First up was The Ferryhill Wheelers 25 mile. Run on a newish course (T253/4) near Catterick – the town known primarily for its army barracks – I arrive severely lacking in military precision. The standard mad rush of gobbling toast and inhaling cereal is followed by hastily throwing bike and gear into the car, and the automotive time trial to the start begins. Arrive, sign in, ask a stranger to pin my number as far down my back as they’re comfortable with and hope that the fit is more Spanx than windsock. There’s just about enough time left to try and get warmed up before the start. The time for cursory laps up and down the nearby lanes is eaten into when my saddle slips and needs adjusting, and my warmup is largely incomplete as once again I find myself rushing to the start line. I’ve failed to warm up and my legs feel poor.
The short line of riders in front of me slowly dwindles minute by minute as they’re counted down, held in position and set off by the timekeepers. I’m counted in and I’m away. The goal is to finish within the hour with an average speed over 25mph, so with the bit between my teeth, I set off, hauling on the bars (reassuring solid metal replacements in place of the carbon death traps that arrived with the bike), straining to reach terminal velocity as quickly as possible. Levering the bars up against the downward stroke of the pedals, I feel like I’m trying to separate the bike entirely. Sadly, this is partially achieved. As I transition from the wide bars to the narrow extensions – positioned so that your forearms are together and stretched forward into an air-piercing nosecone for maximum aerodynamic efficiency – I notice that rather than aiming dead straight, my nosecone’s trajectory is frankly a bit wonky. With no time to return to mission control for engineering adjustments and no precious seconds spare for roadside realignment, I have to accept my new alternative position. With each transition between bars, the misalignment worsens. By the end of the race, I’m about 15 degrees off course. Bar alignment surely didn’t help, but the double loop course, with its undulations, turns, and varying wind conditions all conspired against me. The 25mph average I was aiming for quickly ebbed away and I settled in, head down, legs churning, watching my average speed wane and fall.
I finished in 1:04.17, an average speed just over 23mph. Not the result I’d hoped for, but I was consoled by my more experienced friends, that with the winner finishing in 51:50, the course and conditions were likely slow. And if nothing else I had a season opener to improve upon. The time was marginally faster than last year’s first TT, I had obvious mechanical improvements to make, and the benchmark had been set.
The following week was very similar. Too much to do, too little time. I’d noticed that the front tyre had gone rather soft after the TT, which wasn’t ideal considering that it had started the day at a bullet-hard 120 PSI. And under closer inspection the rear tyre was threadbare in places. More online shopping ensued and the requisite bits were on their way. One minor complication was that the specialist TT wheels took tubular tyres. Unlike the more common tubed clincher tyres I’m used to, that inflate with a rubber innertube inside a tyre hooked onto the bead of the rim, tubular tyres are just that : tubular. The whole tyre is a sealed rubber ring that is glued or taped directly to the wheel. Some YouTube research follows, and I ascertain that taping the tyre to the wheel is likely to be the least painful, and most importantly, least likely to destroy the carpets of my rented flat. Not to mention that glueing the tyres takes two days, as the wheel and tyre need to be glued and left to cure separately for 24 hours before being combined with a further layer of glue the next day.
But firstly, the tyre must be separated from the wheel. It’s a deep-sectioned pure carbon rim, which I am convinced is more delicate than an antique doily. The paradoxical forceful care required to separate tyre from rim costs me my patience and a decent layer of skin from my palms. Once de-tyred, the rim is quickly cleaned and the tape applied ready for its new outfit. Amazingly, the marrying of tyre to rim is incredibly straightforward. Egged on by this success, I go to strip the rear tyre from the spokeless carbon disc that is the rear wheel. Only at this point I discover that it is, in fact, not a tubular wheel. Instead it’s a normal clincher with inner tube. In some ways it’s a relief as the stripping process doesn’t need to be repeated, but simultaneously I don’t have a replacement tyre. Instead I steal the tyre from my road bike and mount that instead. The slightly larger diameter tyre only just squeezes into its much more slender new accommodation. But it’s another item on the ever growing list of problems to solve that has happily been ticked off.
Next was the issue of my position on the bike. Amongst the various things one can do to go faster, getting your position right is both one of the most important and the cheapest. There’s no point being super fit and on the fastest bike money can buy (I can safely say neither apply here), if your riding position is as aerodynamic as a cardboard box. This concept greatly appeals as it is both free, and seemingly is a substitute for excessive fitness. I’d previously made my adjustments and thought that I’d fine tuned myself into the perfect aerodynamic contortion on the bike. That was until I saw some photos of myself actually on the course, and realised, as my mate put it, that I was: “about as aerodynamic as a transit van”. Right. So that needed to be dealt with as well.
By this point, I’ve run out of time for tinkering. I’ve worked Monday to Thursday on day shifts, and Friday to Sunday I have to cover 6.30p.m. to 6.30a.m. night shifts. It is now Saturday afternoon, and I have an hour to get my position right before I’ve got to leave for work, and the TT is on Sunday morning. My plan is to go straight from the night shift, pick up my bike and other gear at home, chuck it all in the car, then drive straight to the start. The micro time trials of each stage of preparation keep adding up. Here, again I have more yearning for the shopping bag in the boot method, but there’s no time for that now. Whatever happens, my riding position needs to be sorted and the only time is now. I manically re-shuffle the bars, flip the stem, and move the spacers to get me lower on the front, bringing my shoulders and head down, and getting my torso much closer to the horizontal formation favoured by the much wiser and more experienced TT riders I share the courses with. I send photos of myself in my pants in position on the bike to long-suffering friends for advice (amazingly they even reply and offer feedback). And then I hurry off to work.
6.30a.m. rolls around and the race to the start begins. Today I’m headed towards Middlesbrough for the Cleveland Coureurs 25. What follows is a rapid departure from work, a pitstop to load the car with equipment and bits and to load my stomach with toast, cereal and coffee, back on the road for 7.30a.m., with an ETA at race HQ around 8.40a.m. My start time was 9.30a.m. on the dot, so the margins aren’t as generous as I’d hoped (but also about what I expected them to be). The slightly manic run begins on arrival. Scrape myself into the tight racing skinsuit, sign in and receive my number, ask a stranger to attach it to my back with safety pins, make my final loo stop and apply chamois cream to any vulnerable spots, before rushing back out to warm up. It’s a hot day, with a gentle wind blowing, but warming up feels awkward. My body is still half asleep from the late shifts and refusing to be roused into action. I stop to double check that my bars and stem are tight this time – fool me once and all that. I notice that my rear brake is threatening to rub on the rim (essentially applying itself constantly, a definite no-no for going fast) and my hurried attempts to bodge it back into place seem to only half work. I check the clock and it’s 4 minutes to my start time, so tinkering hours are over. I head to the start to join the short queue. Watching those in front be counted off in minute intervals until I’m sat on the front, held upright by the timekeeper, as the other counts me down: a minute, 30 seconds, 15 seconds, 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and away. Much to my relief, the initial heave off the line has not altered the alignment of the bars this time, and I settle into the extensions, full steam ahead, all pointing straight and true. I’m not sure of the exact benefit, but I definitely feel more aerodynamic. Tucked in, head low, arms pointing ahead.
The course is very straightforward (quite literally), down the A19 for 12.5 miles before turning and coming back. The tarmac is smooth. The road undulates gently but is about as flat as you’ll get round here. The headwind is gentle, but some solace is offered by the prospect of a tailwind on the return leg. The cars flying past are remarkably loud. The outer shell of my teardrop helmet seemingly acts as one giant diaphragm right into my ears. I cautiously remain on the gutter side of the white line, intimidated by the traffic off the smoother tarmac and into the rougher graded surface. But soon my confidence is bolstered and I take my place on the road proper. My average speed is looking better than my previous effort, I just need to nudge it over the 25mph mark. It’s tickling it, but I’m unable to maintain it. I feel like the headwind is perceptible but I am unsure to what extent the difference it’s making, if any. The hope is that the small reduction in speed will be returned in kind on the second leg.
There’s a small downhill before the turnaround and I crack the 25mph average. I’ll no doubt lose it on the double loop to get back on the road facing home and the climb that follows it, but with a little help from the wind, the window of opportunity for the sub-hour finish time seems to have opened. I climb the hill at 18mph, far below where I want to be overall, but hopefully enough to minimise damage. The slight headwind is now a tailwind and it seems to be making more of a difference than expected. Average speed slowly creeping up. The second half definitely faster than the first. Just keep on. Count the miles down. If not now then when? When else can you try hard? These minutes of hard effort are rare. The opportunity isn’t often presented, so take it with meaning. Enjoy it. Grit the teeth. Kick the pedals. Worry less about the slowing on the inclines and more about trying as hard as I can. Drop a gear or two, spin the legs faster when the torque runs low. Feel the heavy breath and beating heart. The average is even threatening 26mph now. Come on. 23.5 miles down. Hypoxic mind unable to do the maths on the time left. Try to spot the finish. Try to empty the tank. I spot the finish too late, but I’m happy that not much has been left out on the course. I’ve gained a mile per hour in average speed over the desired 25mph, and taken away over a couple of minutes under the hour that I was aiming for. 57.49.
I shout my number to the timekeepers as I pass the finish marker. And then I roll slowly back to HQ.
There, a selection of sandwiches and cakes await and the small reading rooms in the town filled with jubilant riders. It seems I am not the only one to have taken full advantage of the fast course and prime conditions. One rider tells me that he has just broken a personal best that he’s had since 1996, going under 50 minutes in a timed event for the first time, his previous best being a tantalising 50:01, yet today he rode a 49.17. Chapeau! The course record is broken by ex-Olympian Adam Duggleby riding a 46:10 at a blistering 32.5mph average. Undoubtedly, it was a good day to be out there, even after the night shifts. And everyone seems to be sharing in some kind of communal glow. The day was definitely a success, my sub hour goal for the year complete but now it begins in earnest. Surely I can be fitter, faster, more powerful. I just have to keep trying and training, and hopefully find out! Until I can run again, anyway.
Post-script: a message on Facebook from Andrew Vaughan: “Good to see you carrying on the noble tradition of Alf Engers whose 49:24 comp record in 1978 was achieved after a night shift at a bakery, and he also provided a write up for Cycling Weekly.“
Massive thanks to Ferryhill Wheelers and Cleveland Coureurs for organising these events : I enjoyed them both massively.
Pictured below, bars askew, in the “transit van” position.
Health and safety reflections from Cracoe fell race, Sun 21 July 2024
Always carry a phone
Always carry a waterproof
Be able to call Mountain Rescue, and keep warm while waiting for them to arrive
For all runs on the fells – short or long, racing or training, good weather or bad.
A comfortably warm summer Sunday afternoon. Just a short race, 2.5 miles. There’s no definite start time for the Senior race, it’s just whenever the Juniors have finished, which will not be before 1.30pm. From 1.30 onwards we mill about in the start field, dreamily passing time. Eventually the last Junior is in at 2.10pm and we’re underway. The kit recommendation is a waterproof but I decide we won’t need anything today, we’ll be up and down in 25 minutes.
Halfway up the climb, 7-8 minutes in, a runner at the front of the field collapses. I arrive about 90 seconds after; he’s unconscious, unresponsive, unmoving, and I fear the worst. Already he has a gaggle of runners around him, but I also stop to see if I can help. I hear the words “it’s a mountain rescue job” and instinctively dash straight down the fell. There are marshals and spectators on the course; as I pass I quickly mention what’s happened and ask if there are any first aiders. One lady says yes, she is, and will walk up to the casualty. I run straight through the start field to the café by the car park and ask if there’s a defibrillator in the village. Yes, outside the pub down the road. I find the defib in a box with a keypad on it and a sign saying dial 999. I don’t have my phone on me, but I mug a passer-by and he lends me his. I ring 999 and ask for the keypad code. The assistant tells me I have to report the incident first before I can be given the code. Five minutes elapse with me outlining events, describing the location and requesting mountain rescue. Eventually, the assistant tells me the incident has already been reported then gives me the code. I grab the defib and run back up the fell with it. It has a strap like a satchel and is surprisingly heavy. 30 minutes after the incident I arrive back at the casualty with the defib. At the same moment, the Air Ambulance helicopter lands close by and 2 paramedics jump out to assist the casualty, who I’m very relieved to see has now regained consciousness, still accompanied by several people around him.
Shortly after a regular ambulance and Mountain Rescue land rover appear in the fields far below. It’s not immediately obvious how they’re going to get up here, so for a second time I dash down the fell to help guide them up. After some scouting around we find a track to a gate blocked by a herd of cows. After shoo-ing them away the land rover can get through, across the next field and to within 200 yards of the incident. In the meantime the casualty, with the AA guys and everyone else, has managed to very gingerly walk down towards the land rover. At 3.35pm, 80 minutes after the incident, he’s in the land rover and soon after transferred to the ambulance and hospital. Later in the evening he posts to say he is recovering and thanks to all.
On the face of things, it’s been a great outcome, considering. A runner has collapsed in a race but several people – runners, spectators and marshals – provide assistance as best they can. An emergency is reported and Air Ambulance, regular ambulance and Mountain Rescue arrive. The casualty regains consciousness, is brought off the mountain to safety and begins to recover.
Nonetheless, it’s good practice in any health and safety incident to review what happened and think about if there are any lessons that can be learned for next time. It would be all too easy to say “everything turned out OK”, move on and hope it doesn’t happen again. But this is the third similar incident we’ve been aware of at NLFR in the last 7 months, so here are some hopefully useful reflections from Sunday:
Assess the situation
When I stopped and saw the collapsed runner I understandably wanted to do something useful asap. It may have been better though to get a fuller picture of what had happened before acting. There were several people about and I just assumed someone would report the emergency. This is a problem though if everyone makes the same assumption! Perhaps I should have specifically asked “has the call been made?” and, if not, made it, either with my own phone or someone else’s. I could then have described the casualty’s condition and location while in situ. Equally, I could have asked the ascending runners if any were experienced first aiders at that point.
Take a phone
But I didn’t have my phone on me, I’d left it at the start, thinking it wouldn’t be needed. Well, it could have been; again, what if everyone else had decided not to bring a phone? (Obviously, you don’t always get reception halfway up a mountain, but often you do depending on where you are).
Take a waterproof
Even after stopping for just a short period on a warm day, I began to lose heat rapidly. I was just in a vest and hadn’t brought a waterproof. When I got back with the defib half an hour later, the guys I’d left with the casualty were still there; you may end up being still for some time in an emergency. So take a waterproof with you, so that in the event of you can keep either the casualty or yourself warm on the fells.
Defibrillators
In the event of cardiac arrest a defib could save someone’s life. Coincidentally we’ve been discussing defibs amongst the NLFR committee recently, and it was what came immediately to my mind at the key moment, hence my dash down the fell. I had recently visited https://www.defibfinder.uk/ which shows the location of every public defibrillator in the UK, so I had a pretty good hunch there would be one somewhere in Cracoe. What I didn’t know though was that I would need a phone to access it and that I would have to report the incident first (or that it would be so heavy). Another reason for having your phone on you. Equally, if making the initial emergency call, it may be worth asking the assistant for the location of the nearest public defib (and code) at that point, to save duplication and further delay later.
It turned out the defib wasn’t needed on this occasion, as by the time I got back the Air Ambulance had arrived (with their own) and the casualty had regained consciousness anyway. However I later asked the lady who had gone up to provide first aid if it had still been worth me getting the defib; in her view it was, what if the helicopter had been on another call or hadn’t been able to land, or the casualty not regained consciousness?
It’s perhaps a more moot point whether it would have been useful to have had a defib at race registration. If there had been, theoretically it could have been with the casualty in 10 minutes, not 30. I do understand RO’s concerns though about expense, maintenance and the balance of responsibility (we do sign a disclaimer before every race accepting that we run it at our own risk). For the moment, perhaps be aware of the likely location of the nearest defib at a race, whether that’s at the start line or nearby phone box/other public location. Bear in mind that defibs come with instructions on how to use them, and amongst any race field there are likely to be first aiders who have used them before.
But perhaps the key reflection is: always take a phone and waterproof, so that your first option is making an emergency call for fully-equipped assistance, and to keep you and the casualty warm while you wait for it to arrive. Kit recommendations and requirements are not just for races, and not just for poor weather, but for all runs on the fells, long or short, fair weather or foul. Kit advice is not just in case it turns a bit cold or rainy for you on your run, it’s to protect you and others in the worst-case scenario.
Normally to merit a write-up on here you need to have completed some epic Category A fell race or ultra, reliving your day with the following likely sequence: weeks of training – meticulous on-the-day preparation – step-by-step details of each challenging element of the race – the rewards and highs of finishing and lessons learned.
On Saturday, by comparison, I had a lazy morning, chucked a few random items into a bag and left the house shortly before 2pm for a 3.15pm race start. I drove a few miles, parked the car in a free moor-top car park, jogged 5 minutes to a carnival field, handed over a fiver and got a race number for the Baildon Canter. At 5km with 500ft of ascent this may be at the opposite extreme of fell-running to the long stuff, but it’s still very much fell-running. In fact, as the blue red kite flies it’s probably the closest fell race to North Leeds and ideal if you’re thinking of trying a fell race for the first time. It’s only a little more challenging than Chevin parkrun, for example.
Having got my number there was time to have a wander around the Baildon Carnival, in full swing in the field to the side. A typically random selection of stalls, attractions and novelties lent a lively backdrop. I wandered off to find a quiet seat so I could do the fiddly attach-number-to-vest-with-safety-pins business and found one in the adjacent cricket field, where a match was in progress. I’m a lapsed cricket fan but quite enjoyed watching a couple of overs. The bowlers were surprisingly competent with some admirable variations in pace; the batsman by comparison tried to slog everything, without success, until eventually middling one, sending the ball arcing into an adjacent back garden for 6. The resulting ball-hunt and delay was my cue to return to the race field.
By this time a gaggle of other NLFRs had gathered – Jonny (trying to define his new gainful employment of oceanography), Ian (now a guinea pig in a pre-marathon VO2 Max study), Cailum (on home Baildon turf) and Nick (often keen for a race). I was glad to see that the start had been slightly altered from my last time here in 2022 so that the course is now spread out before the narrow snicket at the exit of the field.
3.15 and we’re underway, a mad dash for the snicket. It’s still pretty awkward, with low hanging branches and some steps adding to the fun, but we get through it OK and out onto the moor. Very soon we cross the road for the first time, which is well marshalled, and begin a gradual climb towards Hopes Hill. Unlike most short fell races, which are very steep, the pace here feels flat out, more like a cross-country race. As we loop round the back of the hill the guy in front momentarily stumbles. This is enough for me to get past and he never re-overtakes. Fine margins in a short race like this.
Cailum and Jonny have disappeared out of sight but I do have Ian around 20 yards in front as a hypothetical target. However he begins to pull away on the short climb up to the top, and is faster on the mildly technical descent on the other side. As the course flattens out re-approaching the road I begin to reel him in a bit. Just before the road itself the following sequence of calculations happens in the blink of an eye, perhaps 2 seconds, while we are both running at speed:
Is there any traffic obviously moving on the road? – no
Is there a parked car blocking the path on the other side of the road? – yes
Are the marshals making it very obvious where the path is? – no
Ian guesses to the right of the car, I guess left. I was correct, and surprisingly find myself in front. It’s just 90 seconds to the finish from here, I don’t think I could have successfully overtaken at any other point.
Before long we are all collapsed at the finish line and awaiting the presentations as the rain sweeps in. Me and Cailum both win an out-of-season Toblerone, reminding us of the tumultuous downpour at December’s Gathering Winter Fools Relay, where we used a Toblerone as the team’s novelty baton. By Leg 4 the Toblerone was in a state of significant decomposition, and beyond edibility, although enough of it remained at the finish to prove we’d completed the course. Next time we’ve pledged to put the Toblerone in the freezer the night before, to increase its chances of survival. Today though, it was just nice to take sweets home from the fair, not least Matterhorn-shaped ones, even if this course had hardly been Alpine-style.
Preparation for this race began in 2022. I’d pre-entered that year but had to pull out with COVID. I’d obviously done a bit of research: when I dug my OS map out last week it still had the checkpoints dimly marked in pencil.
My vague plan for the summer is to be fit enough to run Borrowdale in August, which I’ve done three times before. I’d done Fairfield (AM) in May and needed a step up to an AL. The distance and elevation of this course felt right, so those pencil marks weren’t going to be wasted after all.
Much of the story of any race is the build-up the week before. Having entered on Monday, I was faced with a whole new problem on Tuesday. A bunion appeared at the base of my big toe and was rubbing painfully. On Wednesday I went out for a jog and managed 50 yards of intense discomfort before returning to the car. Fortunately I found a knackered old pair of shoes with a convenient hole in the side which made running tolerable, although less so on the technical descents. So not looking promising for Saturday. A scour of the aisles in Boots on Thursday revealed a “bunion guard” which fits over your foot like a bandage. A final test of this on Friday was encouraging, enough to make the trip a goer.
I’d wondered about staying over in the Lakes the night before and/or after but eventually decided to make it a long day trip. A 5am start sounds early but it’s less of an issue when it’s already daylight. I’ve also recently acquired a highly neurotic cat (Mona) who, due to neglect from a previous owner, begs for attention and food at any opportunity. I didn’t mind the feline alarm clock today.
A 6.30am departure from Bradford had me pulling into the parking field in Loweswater at 9.45am, in good time for the 11am start. This is an idyllic corner of the Lakes, all the scenery but without the crowds. It felt quiet even with 150 fellrunners trickling in.
I had nice chats with a few familiar faces: Tanya from Fellandale, Dave from St Theresa’s, Joe from Dark Peak. All three though were facing a different prospect to me, as I had entered the “short” version of the course, whereas they were doing the real thing, a 36km monster all the way to Honister and back. Beyond my comprehension at present, I was just hoping to get back before their winner did (both races start together, then the courses diverge at Whiteless Pike).
One of the appealing aspects of fellrunning is how life’s worries drift away as start time approaches, as you focus entirely on the race. I’d forgotten about the bunion now (the guard was comfortably in place) and the final decision was whether to wear a t-shirt under the vest. I’d got uncomfortably sunburnt at Fairfield and didn’t fancy a repeat. However, the sun was out and the temperature rising. Eventually, I plumped for the t-shirt, despite being the only runner in 2 layers. Maybe I should invest in an NLFR t-shirt, if available.
The start was half a mile on the road downhill, which spread the field nicely. A jog through some woods then onto the open fell up Whiteside. We were all soon down to a walk, and it stayed that way for the next 30 minutes. You could probably become a good fellrunner just by doing lots of fellwalking. Near the top, a noticeable cool breeze came in and I felt a bit smug about the t-shirt, it was nice to have it for the rest of the race.
From Whiteside, it was a jog along the ridge to Hopegill Head, with scenic views to both sides. We then took a dive down to Coledale Hause and crossed a lively beck, the first water on the route. I took the precaution of filling my fancy filtration water bottle, to complement the 500ml I’d packed at the start. Then a long drag up to the flat, grassy top of Grasmoor, the highest point on the course. A double-back for half a mile then another descent to Whiteless Pike. The way off the top seemed intuitive and I followed the obvious line towards Buttermere; however this is a potential trap for the full course which deviates here on a less obvious line towards Newlands Hause – take note.
After a long grassy descent we dibbed in Buttermere village. A couple of hours on the watch, a free jelly baby and the bulk of the course done. It had been relatively straightforward up to now and I hadn’t needed to get the map out, following the field ahead had been OK. Actually though, the race was about to change character and, on reflection, I now see it as a race of two halves.
I continued following runners on the main path out of the village, arrived at the foot of Sour Milk Gill and turned right. Only afterwards did I realise that I’d missed a different path which would have saved half a mile. Equally, as the path bent left towards Scale Force I missed a trod to the right and ended up doubling-back through tussocks and bracken, wasting another few minutes. This kind of thing can happen well into a long race.
Then the real sting in the tail: Mellbreak. An impressive and attractive fell from many angles, but this way up via Scale Knott was just a grind, very steep, no trod, just head down, put one foot in front of the other and eventually you’ll get there (I was grateful for the fill-up from the stream earlier to get up the climb). Equally the descent off the col between the two tops. I just followed the runner in front and ended up on a narrow descending trod which felt a bit too technical three hours into a race. A better line may have been to have gone straight down and run in on the level track below. Either way, a recce of Mellbreak is recommended!
Eventually though, I arrived at the finish in Loweswater in a time of 3:21:33, a not unrespectable 26th of 48 finishers on the short course. A massive free spread of veggie chilli, cakes and beverages was waiting as our reward, which made the £15 entry fee (with free parking) a real bargain. Having tucked in and begun to feel human again, a short while later James Harris of Ambleside sprinted in, the winner of the full course in just over 4 hours. We really hadn’t been in the same race.
In the age of Strava, we’re used to being visible, to being watched. If it’s not on Strava, it didn’t happen. But the dramatic rise in popularity of ultra endurance events and multi-day adventure racing over recent years has seen the emergence of a curious new form of spectatorship. So-called “dot-watching” enables followers to track runners around courses in real time from the comfort of their own homes. Like the Eye of Sauron, now, there really is nowhere to hide.
If you actually stop and think about it, following a small dot around a screen for an entire weekend is a slightly strange pursuit. Especially when you consider that many of the people we so enthusiastically share our tracker links with have little or no context for the types of events we’re undertaking. How many dot watchers, for example, have been dots themselves? Do all dot watchers want to become dots? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean that watching the relentless forward progress of these tiny dots quietly going about their business can’t still be reassuring, and perhaps a little bit captivating. Especially when set against the mundane, everyday settings in which we often consume them; at work, in bed, or on the sofa. But what does it actually feel like to be a dot? To be out there in the dark, the wind, the rain, hour after hour. Do dots have feelings too?
Until very recently, I’m not sure I would have been best placed to answer this question. Two years ago, at the South Downs Way 100, I was the very worst kind of dot. You know the kind. It’s the one that hasn’t moved for a while. And I mean, quite a while. At first, you think it might be your internet connection. Or, more likely, the tracker itself has just momentarily dropped signal. But now, to make matters worse, this dot isn’t actually a dot any longer. No, this dot has become the thing that all dots fear; the strange little flashing bed icon!!! Some dots, the lucky ones, will miraculously reverse this unwanted transformation and regain their status as dots to begin their onward progress towards the finish. But, alas, I was not one of those.
It sounds a little bit dramatic now as I write it, but my DNF at the 30-mile point on the South Downs Way 100 in 2022 actually prompted something of an existential crisis. It certainly didn’t help that I’d planned the run as the centerpiece of my 40th birthday celebrations. I was quite literally racing the moment, at 2am in the morning, that I would step triumphantly from one decade into another. I’d decided this would be the final, definitive act of my 30s. A fitting end to another decade of running. As it happened (thanks to my hip, and probably poor pacing and lack of mental preparation), I turned 40 sitting on the sofa in an Airbnb in Eastbourne with a beer in my hand, not as a strong little dot, but as a vulnerable and fragile voyeur, hidden from view, watching all the other dots doing what dots are actually supposed to do, moving towards the finish!
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, I’d gone from participating in the race to consuming it online. In reality, I’d waited for a good couple of hours to be picked up from the checkpoint I’d dropped out at. I’d been driven nearly 70 miles back to our accommodation, where I’d enjoyed a shower, two meals and a nap, and the dots were still at it, just being dots, and most still had a very long way to go. On the one hand, this was a sobering and unappealing thought. On the other, it provided an enticing glimpse into the unfathomable persistence of these tiny little dots. I simply needed to know more. My time as a dot had been so brief. If only I’d known that I wouldn’t be a dot forever, I would have soaked up every precious moment. So, I did what any rational human being would do in my place, and I signed up immediately for the Lakeland 100. I would be a dot once again!
I’m pleased to say that this time around, my experience as a dot was a much happier one. I set off at a more reasonable pace, I kept my ego in check, and I ran strongly throughout the entire race to finish in 22h and 50 minutes, well under my 24-hour target. Suddenly, all the bad memories from last year were forgotten. I’d become the dot I’d always imagined I would be; effervescent, bright, and proudly visible in my moment of glory.
Finally, our curious little preoccupation with dot watching all made perfect sense because, ultimately, a dot can only really be a dot if someone’s watching it.
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