Category: Fellsman

About 60 miles

About 11,000 feet

Seven hours have just ticked over on my Garmin. I scramble to grab my jacket and zip it up tightly as quickly as I can. The temperature is beginning to drop, the clouds are rolling in and the rain is starting to pour as I make my way down Dodd Fell after completing a soul-destroying climb before traversing the marshes and being dropped. This was to be the turning point for me during the Fellsman 2024.

Sections of my account have been dramatised. I had a lot of fun writing this on the train to London.

I’ve been making great progress. I’d go as far as to say a dream start. I was comfortably 3rd until Dent (approx 31 km). Kim Collison even said “well done” to me as he effortlessly cruised down Whernside after checkpoint 3 while I made my way through his dust. That might just well be my biggest achievement as a runner. By comparison, he was comfortable, steady and relaxed. I was pushing and I knew it! I’d started too fast and it wasn’t sustainable. The feeling of being positioned 3rd in such a classic race as the Fellsman was addictive and I didn’t want to pop the bubble.

I was feeling great. For the first time ever I’d actually tapered. My legs were strong and my mind was determined. Descending Whernside via the western side, I scaled the stile Matt, Dereck and I had completely missed during our recce in midwinter. Not this time. I was dialled-in, vigilant and handling business. I found a great line down to the beck, which I followed keeping the water to my right, dropped down the verge, crossed the river turning right over the plank of wood forming a bridge then across the road to checkpoint 2. I had memorised these actions along the entire route, noted them down and played them out in my head countless times. Navigation errors today would just add to the suffering. I was taking this seriously!

A caveat : I’m still relatively new to this ultrarunning scene. This was my first 100 km (actually 97 km) event, and I could count on my hands the amount of times I’d officially entered an ultra race. I hadn’t run past 65 km in a single effort before. It also meant that training for such an event was new territory for me and training over winter to get into the right shape for this event was bloody hard work.

Typically I’d be running six days a week including a double run day (which I affectionately named Manic Monday, Double Trouble Tuesday, Wicked Wednesday and Freaky Friday depending on the day…it helped!) with strength and conditioning sessions a few times a week for good measure. Not to mention running home after NLFR club nights which conveniently most weeks seem to be at Burley Moor which meant I could run back to Baildon over the tops, adding some extra miles in through the week. All of these sessions were off-road, I wanted to prepare for the worst and get cosy with the bog.

I’m not ashamed to admit that there were a few occasions that it was too much, where perhaps I was overtraining and the whole thing was overwhelming. In fact, there was a moment one evening mid-week which was a particularly miserable day. So miserable, I broke down and nearly pulled out altogether. I started to hate running! On reflection, I’m so happy I didn’t. It’s taught me that I can persevere and the experience has improved my ability as a runner. Training is the hard part. Getting into your running kit for the sixth time in a row, after a hard day at work when it’s cold, dark and raining, to run repeats on a moor in February takes discipline and mental fortitude that builds your character. It’s not easy and I quickly found out I’m not the exception.

Arriving at Dent (CP 8/31 km) I had made the sensible decision to ease off and allow myself to not worry about being passed. I needed to remember the guys around me were outright athletes, incredibly fast and strong runners who seemed to glide over the undulating and unforgiving terrain. It’s such a pleasure to watch someone so dedicated and able in their craft. They were going to pass me anyway, they were better than me; but as anyone competitive knows, it hurts regardless.

I reminded myself that I’ve got another 60 km+ to go over mountains through bogs and dodging tussocks. So relax, settle in, be patient and pace yourself. I eased off and started my ascent up Blea Moor (or Bleak Moor as I call it). Matt (Matt John/NLFR) had commented back in winter that the bogs here actually go uphill. Is that possible?

I had entered the pain cave and had blown right through the front door. It’s not usual for me to hit a low so early on but I wasn’t nearly consuming enough calories. Eating was challenging. I was picking up the odd biscuit and downing the odd gel. I wasn’t abiding by my strategy of eating every 30 minutes and filling up at each checkpoint. I thought back to Will’s account of his incredible performance during Lakes in a Day where he would consume a gel every 20 minutes. That wasn’t possible for me, I had to figure out a plan. Then again I’d never pushed as hard over this distance. It was all new territory and I had to adapt on the fly.

My pace was starting to slow, more so than I had intended. My legs were hurting, particularly my hip flexor. I hadn’t felt this since I first began running over lockdown where each time I left the door It would be a max effort 5 km (terrible idea). Perhaps I was coming full circle?

To make matters worse I was being hunted! Matt (Matt John/NLFR) who I had pushed ahead of on Ingleborough (CP1) was finding his stride, gathering pace and hunting for souls. Just like Maverick in Top Gun, I was right in his sights. I had passed him on a few out-and-backs at Whernside and Great Knoutberry. We’d exchange words of encouragement as we pushed hard. I knew he was right there, but him being there was pushing me on. He’s an incredible runner and was demonstrating how to conduct yourself during such a gruelling event. As I turned back I could see the distinctive upright peak of his hat and purple shorts in the distance. Like a lion stalking his prey. He’s gaining and I’m hitting a wall (perhaps I’ve dramatised this a little).

Inevitably he breezed past me shortly afterwards before the ascent up Dodd Fell where a few months back we had been caught out in a rainstorm before hightailing it down the Pennine Way to Hawes for fish and chips and a pint. It was a fitting moment. He moved with purpose and efficiency, a man in his element and a mind in complete control (that is entirely true). Morale lifted by a familiar face, I gathered what strength I had left and hung on tight as we shared a few kilometres together. We joked about how we should head down the hill towards Hawes and find the same chippy. He at least was joking; I wouldn’t have taken much convincing!

I hung on with Matt as long as I could but his pace was unrelenting, I was hoping he’d walk the hills so I could catch my breath but that wasn’t ever going to happen and not before long, I was dropped. A harsh reality. This wasn’t club night. No-one was waiting for you to catch up at the top of the hill. This was a race and survival of the fittest. I reminded myself that I needed to run my own race and let go of any ego to finish in the top 10.

I knew in the back of my mind my race was coming to a premature end. I could barely sustain a light jog. I was in a bad way and perhaps that electric start was my downfall. Like any amateur and inexperienced long-distance runner, I blew up at the beginning and I was paying for it, big time!

Coming off Dodd Fell I made some good navigational decisions and caught up with Matt as he arrived at the next checkpoint before he vanished into the distance eventually finishing 9th overall. Deciding to take some time at the Fleet Moss checkpoint I sat and forced some food down. I was feeling very sorry for myself when my family asked how I was. In truth, I was broken. This course had chewed me up and spat me out! My hip flexor wasn’t getting any better and the pain was getting worse. I decided to push onto Deepdale about 6 km away down a tarmac road. Leaving Fleet Moss standing up was hard enough, my legs and hips had seized up but I was determined to get to Deepdale (mostly because it sounded like something out of Lord of the Rings).

Arriving at Deepdale my mind was made up and sadly, there as it rained, mid-afternoon and 65km into the race I retired, ending my attempt at the Fellsman 2024.

A few days later after taking some time to recover, mind and body, I knew my decision to retire was the right one. This race meant an awful lot to me. I had sacrificed so many hours to step onto the start line prepared. You don’t enter these events knowing you’re going to finish. I entered to find my limits and I found them! I’ve learned a lot and I’ve come out the other end better for it. The Fellsman has been and remains both terrifying and beautiful. I will be back next year!

Cailum Earley