For the first time ever, I had paid for a training plan for this marathon from coach Josh Griffiths (who ran a 2.14.49 London Marathon in 2017). Anyway, I followed this plan to the letter following the dysphasia of my London marathon last year. Boston is again an incredibly flat marathon; it is a circular route around the arable fields of Lincolnshire, no hills, no anything.
It was a warm day with a gentle sea breeze. The race still started in waves, so like London, I wasn’t sure how I was doing. My plan of nutrition disintegrated when my five gels fell out of my bumbag at the start, I scrabbled to get them from under pounding feet and lost two due to burstage, not a good start (there were none on the course either). The marathon, was as always, increasingly psychologically challenging.
The initial gambolling runners were reduced to limping figures in the last six miles, the flatness (total ascent over 26 miles is 86 feet) like running on a treadmill. Many were tempted by the turn-off for the concurrent half marathon. My second half pace dwindled, but I developed fortitude in the last two miles and passed many finishing in 3.47.38, 6th in my age group and 40th woman. It does give me an entry time for Boston USA should I ever fancy it and a further London good-for-age time for 2023. London 2022 next? The winning man was Lincoln runner William Strangeway in 2.25.11 and first woman was Natasha White in 2.59.07.
For the past two weeks I have been on strike in support of the University and College Union industrial action over cuts to pensions, pay cuts, casualisation, equality pay gaps and unsafe workloads. This post isn’t about the strike but the role running has had in this strike.
To mix up the picket lines, and to keep warm on bitterly cold strike days, the Leeds UCU branch have organised a “running picket line”. Every day we meet up and run three laps around the circumference of the University campus with whistles, banners and flags. It helps me gets a 10K run in before lunch time, but more importantly it has allowed me to meet fellow striking colleagues who I wouldn’t usually meet during my regular working day.
I find that running as a group provides an easy way to speak to new people, hear about why they’re striking, hear about why they’re running, and hear what they love about their work. I’ve run with post-docs in plant science, professors in romantic literature, language support staff, PhD students, school engagement officers and library staff! While the journeys that brought us to the University vary wildly we come together everyday and run for a common cause. The first lap often involves introductions to new-comers, the second lap allows people to mingle in naturally paced groups, and by the third lap, high on endorphins, we’re ready to take on the world!
More widely, away from campus and strikes, I love how group running allows people from all walks of life to come together and create a powerful energy and joie de vivre. At least that’s what I have found from running with NLFR and UCU.
Last week, we were delighted to host Emma Beddington on her first ever fell run. She is filling in for Rhik Samadder’s series for the Guardian on trying new experiences: Emma’s were fell running and swordfighting (yes, yes, not together). So she turned up promptly with photographer Richard Saker at our club run meeting spot in Burley-in-Wharfedale, managed not to look too terrified, then set off on a specially designed “not *too* brutal” route devised by Mike. And although you may not think it from this piece as she does not throw flowers at herself, she did brilliantly. Also, Emma, there was nothing pretend about those breathers!
Anyway if you have found your way here via Emma’s piece, welcome. If you are local to Leeds — that includes flat York — please do come and run with us one evening, you would be very welcome. Unlike most clubs, we are happy for you to run with us without joining, although of course we are always happy to have new members. We do insist though that you fill in a track and trace Google form that you can find on this website under “Covid.”
Emma Beddington tries … fell running: ‘It’s like dragging bags of cement uphill – only the bags are my legs’
My favourite part of childhood summer holidays with my dad was our trip to the Yorkshire Dales agricultural show, a respite from his usual gruelling regime of mountain walks and examining dead fauna. Between prize rams and displays of trimmed leeks we watched the fell-running races: infants and gnarled pensioners scampering up and then down a sheer crag, all for a biscuit and a certificate.
“Look at the little bastards!” Dad would exclaim, gesturing incredulously, plastic pint glass slopping bitter as wiry five-year-olds whizzed past, legs a blur. Lumpen by his side, mouth crammed with cake, I would feel an obscure longing: why wasn’t I a fearless, muddy-kneed dynamo?
Nearly 40 years later, I’m joining North Leeds Fell Runners for a run on Ilkley Moor to scratch that itch. “Fell running is an all-terrain sport,” the Fell Runners Association website explains, “and often involves routes with no paths … You should expect open moorland, rocky grass, bogs, tussocks, heather, boulder fields and some very steep climbs and descents.”
I live in York, perhaps the flattest place in the UK, and my exercise regime is booking then skipping Pilates classes. I did one practice run, which I thought went OK until I got home and realised I had been out for only 12 minutes: this will be an uphill task in more ways than one. Limbering up in singlets and shorts, the North Leeds runners offer little reassurance. The age range is wide but everyone looks intimidatingly fit, even Burt the dog (he’s not in shorts).
I’m terrified. Ominously, before we start, I have to provide an emergency contact, then a woman called Liz says I’m very brave – immediate alarm bells – and a man called Dave tells me it’s fine until your peripheral vision fails. He’s laughing, so it might be a joke.
Thankfully, Mike, the unofficial run-leader, (65, with frighteningly long legs) has devised a “not too brutal” route for the group I’m joining: him, Hilary and Clare, who are recovering from injury and returning after a break respectively, photographer Richard and my friend Rose (a proper, hard-core fell runner who has volunteered for “keep Emma alive” duty). The bigger, faster groups choose their routes, then we’re off, through the gate on to the steep, bracken-lined moor.
Rose claims it’s a misconception that fell runners always run, but my impression is of accidentally joining a greyhound race: lithe frames whiz past at absurdly high speed. I’m going nowhere fast. It feels like dragging bags of wet cement uphill, except the bags are my legs. I’m overtaken by a limping sheep.
Far above, Mike points out the “fast lads”, already sprinting across the horizon. “If it helps,” says Rose conversationally as I stagger past, sweat in my eyes, chest itchy and heart trying to escape from my mouth, “your body is in shock.” I’m not sure it does.
What does help is the group often pretending they need a breather. This compassionate fiction keeps me going, plus my guilt at poor Richard, who – Ginger Rogers to my lumbering Fred Astaire – is doing everything I am, but backwards, with a bag of camera gear.
Finally, mercifully, the gradient levels out. As the prospect of imminent death recedes, I can look around: we’re surrounded by honey-scented purple heather punctuated by limestone outcrops.
The sky feels huge, the clouds shading from cotton wool to angry black, blue sky and diffuse golden sun. It’s wonderfully silent until the plump grouse startle ahead of us, grumbling. I’m running on Ilkley Moor, baht’at (unless my fleecy headband counts)! I’m starting to understand the appeal.
Perhaps sensing that, Mike’s encouragement becomes more muscular. “Come on!” he shouts. “Get moving!” It’s like walking with my dad, except he isn’t taunting me with a withheld Mars bar. The top is worth it: I love the 12 Apostles – a windswept stone circle – and the panoramic view over the Dales, Pennines and moors.
Instead of savouring it, however, it’s time to try “straight-lining”: picking a destination and heading there, path be damned. Mike hares off into an arbitrary patch of boggy, stony heather, like some kind of moorland anarchist. “Pick your feet up,” Rose advises. “And don’t get too close to the runner in front,” adds Hilary. There’s absolutely no danger of that.
The final mile is a sheer scramble downhill. “Brakes off, brain out,” Mike says: trust your legs and instincts. Against all odds, I love it with all my risk-averse heart. “This is great,” I hear myself saying, gleefully hopping from rock to tussock. I feel fearless, playful and childlike; subsequently pictures reveal I look like a flustered matron who has left Zoom Zumba in a hurry to bring the washing in.
But the feeling is real: I reach the bottom tingling all over. Lactic acid? Endorphins? Who cares?
The faster runners reappear, barely puffed after twice the distance; Burt the dog still wants to play. I’m ecstatically disinhibited at merely surviving. “How do you stretch your bum?” I ask peripheral vision Dave, a total stranger.
On the way home after chips in the pub – the best bit – I send my father a picture of me in “action”. “Wow!” he replies. I can almost hear his pint spilling: mission accomplished.
Would I go back?
North Leeds run all through winter, with head torches. Apparently, it’s stunning in the snow. Maybe I’ll … ha, of course I won’t. No.
A relay and an actual race. How exciting. We were delighted to dig out our race vests and buffs to take part in the Bradford Millennium Way Relay, organized by Saltaire Striders. It starts and ends in Bingley, and takes in Wilsden, Denholme, Oxenhope, Haworth, Oakworth, Steeton, Silsden, Addingham and Ilkley. We’re still in a pandemic of course, so there were restrictions, including staggered starts for some legs. Maybe the hardest loss was the exceptional cakes baked by the people of Laycock, the thought of which kept the Leg 3 pair in 2020 going for the entire leg, because they knew they had set a strawberry tart aside before they set off, to be consumed when they returned to pick up the car at the end. (Canny.) Some may think this relay not particularly “felly”, but there are plenty of moors and fields and glorious Yorkshire landscape. And, as leg 1 will attest, plenty of hills. The forecast was for heat and sun, and it delivered, though the day became more overcast than predicted. We put out a mixed team, expertly organized by our new women’s captain Emma Lane (thanks Emma), and Team 16 had a fine day out. Reports from three legs below.
Leg 1: Beckfoot Lane, Bingley to Penistone Hill Country Park, 10 miles, 1789 feet
Pair: Ann Brydson Hall and Andrew Sugden
The first and final legs of a relay usually go to the strongest runners in a team. A fast start and you stamp your authority on the race and give your team-mates a lift. The final runner(s) then run their hearts out for the best possible final position. I bet Usain Bolt used to run the first or last leg. Anyhoo. I do hope that Ann and I lived up to expectations. Ten miles with lots and lots of hills on a hot day was quite a challenge but I think we did pretty good really. Between us there was a combined age of 119 years but we still passed much younger runners, some who were walking on the flats after six miles. Maybe we were picked for our experience and wisdom? Well, perhaps not, as we nearly missed the start having jogged too far down Beckett Lane and before they put out the big START signs.
I must say that the first leg is a delight and I loved my little recce runs despite getting hopelessly lost twice. The leg has pretty villages (not Denholme), beautiful woodland, moorland and waterfalls although I’m not sure how much of it Ann noticed. My partner put in a gritty performance and one steep hill of only 20 metres was the only time I saw her power-walk. That last uphill mile to the finish goes on forever and whilst others walked, Ann carried on running. BMWR was my first race for NLFR and it was great fun. Proud to wear my new vest.
— Andrew Sugden
Leg 2 : Penistone Hill Country Park to Laycock, 9 miles, 1230 feet
Pair: Liz Casey and Caroline Clarke (representing the VF60 category!)
The day dawned bright, fine and warm. I was woken earlier than expected by Liz who’d had a family emergency overnight which meant our travel plans needed to change and an earlier than expected start was needed. As I hadn’t planned to drive to Laycock I relied totally on Google Maps which sent me to a closed road! Mild panic, I called Liz to explain, abandoned Sat Nav in favour of a couple of dog walking blokes who gave me correct directions and arrived in Laycock, met Liz with plenty of time and drove to the start. Well not quite, we slightly under-shot the start. Still, we had a good warm up from there to the handover point.
It was strange to be on Penistone Hill in fine weather, rather than the usual freezing gales, horizontal rain and fancy dress characteristic of the Woodentops races held in the depth of winter.
This relay is always popular amongst local clubs and was full so there were lots of familiar faces waiting in anticipation of their leg 1 friends arriving before the mass start. Liz and I chatted to friends from other clubs during our wait but it didn’t last long: Ann and Andrew didn’t disappoint and handed over the baton in plenty of time to avoid the mass start.
We set off in great running conditions, very dry underfoot if a little warm. Route-finding was easy due to Liz’s knowledge of the race and the much needed recce.
A note to fellow runners. We were disappointed to find a lot of the gates en route left open in fields containing livestock with no sign of the previous runners! This behaviour gives runners a bad name and potentially spoils everything for others if farmers complain. Please, people, shut gates after you and follow the Countryside Code. The rules were pretty relaxed on the day apart from that one request. The least we can do is observe them.
We ran through a superb mixture of moorland, valleys, fields, farms and woodland and finally that killer hill from Goose Eye to Laycock and the finish line outside the village hall. Sadly no cakes were on sale due to Covid but a handy collapsible water cup was given to all competitors.
Thanks to Emma Lane for organising and for Saltaire Striders for putting on the race. It was great to see so many happy people delighted to be racing again. A special thanks and congratulations to team-mate Liz for her nav skills and for the completion of a 54-mile ultra the following week!
— Caroline Clarke
Leg 3: Laycock to Silsden, 8 miles, 811 feet
Pair: Emma Lane and Rose George
This is a good opportunity to highlight what Emma did in May: to thank St. Gemma’s Hospice, which cared for her granddad George when he died earlier this year, Emma decided to do a testing challenge. Every day, she would get up and run a number of kilometres to match the day’s date. No rest, no break. And she did it, splendidly. I joined her for a couple of runs and though my chosen route had plenty of inclines, she was full steam ahead up them. On her last day, she looked fresh and comfortable, though she had run a total of 496 kilometres. So she was uncertain about what form she’d be in for the relay, even after a week’s rest. She didn’t need to worry: all that fitness and all that stamina meant she was in great form and fresher than I was. I was worried though, by the weather forecast. I droop in hot weather, and our leg would set off near midday. I packed a cap and plenty of water and hoped for the best. Emma’s mum and fellow NLFR runner Hilary gave us a lift to the start (she’s coming back from injury otherwise would have taken part), and we had plenty of what Emma and I both call “faffing time.” Time to get your head in place, time to say hello to people you always saw at races but haven’t seen in 18 months, time for several toilet visits, time to calm the race nerves. Race nerves! Hello old friends, I haven’t seen you for a while. Actually, I didn’t have any, maybe because this was such a novel experience. We saw our friends Marion and Louise from Fellanddale finish really strongly, though Louise looked extremely overheated. Mind, they’d just run up Goose Eye, a fearsome hill that finishes Leg 2. We thought our Leg 2 pair might make it before the mass start, but they didn’t so we mingled out on the road. There was no staggered start although there were more than 20 pairs, which was odd, because the route goes up a narrow track and then along another narrow track, and there was congestion. Still, as soon as we got to the fields, it spaced out. The route has 800 feet of climb but it’s a net downhill, though not in that first mile. I’d recced the route as Emma was a bit busy doing her challenge and I was happy to, and I thought I knew most of it well enough. There were a couple of points when I hesitated, but plenty where I knew where I was and where I was going, which is always a nice feeling. Hilary and my partner Neil were out on bikes and kept popping up like welcome sprites along the route. It was always great to see them but as we went on, and the sun shone, I began to flag, especially as we approached the Keighley bypass, my least favourite part of the route, which involves you running into oncoming traffic. It had been coned off though, which made it a more tolerable experience than during recces, where I’d been confined to an uneven and frankly alarming verge. But over the bypass and to the bridge, and there were Hilary and Neil, smiling and cheering. Neil, god bless him, was holding a bottle of water that was partly iced and it was the best thing I’d ever seen. I poured it over my head and felt instantly better. After the first mile or so everyone had spaced out, there was no more overtaking. We had overtaken a Baildon pair, but lost that advantage when I started fading, and although we had them in our sights, we didn’t catch them again. It’s an enjoyable route, through fields and farms and woodlands, and with very few technical bits. Also, you get to cross a railway track and talk to cows.
Clouds covered the sun, I perked up, and we arrived at Silsden in 1.32:35, in 50th position out of 68. One of the marshals had a bucket of water and a sponge by his table: until you have run in heat and sponged water over your head you have not known true relief. (I know, it was only 8 miles. But I’m a hot weather wimp.) And Emma? She was fresh as a daisy.
— Rose George
Leg 5: Ilkley to Bradford & Bingley rugby club, 10.7 miles
Pair: Phil Davies and Andy Foster
Me (Andy) and Phil started the leg with a walk of shame. We knew that if our leg 4 runners hadn’t reached their finish before a certain time we would have to join the mass start. So here we were waiting with the rest of the leg 5 runners for the go ahead and over the brow of the hill came Lisa and Ruth. We were chuffed to be able to avoid the mass start so we jogged over to the start and sprinted off once Lisa and Ruth had reached us. But around 50m from the start we heard shouting and turned around to loads of mass start runners calling us back to the start. Apparently even if your previous pair arrives before the mass start, within a certain time you have to leave with the mass start anyway. So then came the walk of shame back to the start line, where we received some friendly stick from some Roundhay Runners women for our “false” start.
Luckily that meant we were at the front for the mass start and the duo from Roundhay became good pace keepers for the first 3 or so miles past White Wells and up Rocky Valley. Phil was apologetic for his fitness prior to the race as he was just getting back into the swing of things after a few injuries earlier in the year, but he kept a good pace and we really shone during the downhill sections with a little more confidence than the other trail runners on rocky, technical sections. Around 7 miles in, near the Glen House Pub, we heard the news of a Sterling goal for England which spurred us on providing us with some needed distraction in the form of some football crack for the next mile or so to the canal. The final part of the run is the least exciting, over some football fields and a little bit of road running but the end was in sight and we put the thrusters on a little to make sure two runners behind us didn’t catch up. We finished our leg which was around 17.5km in 1hr 43mins. A quick couple of minutes to catch our breath followed by a brisk walk up the hill to catch our train back to Ilkley.
A race. An actual race. A race with real numbers that you pin to your club vest with actual pins. Real checkpoints. Real marshals. Everything real. Everything vivid. Everything I have not done for six months, since FRB and I did the 30-mile Haworth Hobble in March, in the last weekend before lockdown. For this race, timing was important. A week before it was due to be run, we still hadn’t entered and the entry list – it had only 100 runners – was full. Oh. I wrote to Jamie, a fell-running mate of ours who organizes it, and congratulated him on the race selling out and cursing my lateness at entering. It’s not a passive aggressive message request for places, I wrote, meaning it. Anyway, the dodgy knee that I have had since a month into lockdown would be thankful that I was not going to be running the 28 miles of the Lancashireman off-road “marathon” (they are generous in Lancashire) on very imperfect training.
Jamie wrote back. He had a couple of places and would Neil and I like them?
The reasons against accepting:
The Lancashireman is 28 miles long.
The Lancashireman is 28 miles long.
The Lancashireman is 28 miles long.
I had spent hours on my feet during a week in Scotland, but before that I’d not run beyond 15 miles for months, since the Fellsman was one of the first races to be cancelled. But I have form at running long runs unprepared. I said yes please to Jamie, and started eating everything. I was worried about my knee, as although my physio had decided my knee pain was due to inactive glutes, and finished with “go forth and run,” it was not getting better and sitting and lying both made it hurt. The only time it seemed OK was running, but not steeply downhill. But I accepted the places, hoped my knee would behave, and got quite excited.
I did a training session of mile efforts on the Wednesday, then no more running. I had a seriously crappy week for work/book reasons, and began to think that running for six or so hours across Lancashire countryside was exactly what I needed. We headed to Burnley on Saturday night, had a night at the Premier Inn for £33 (pandemic price), then up at 6.30 to eat our DIY breakfasts: Weetabix in Tupperware and an M&S baguette. Elite fuelling.
I was going to try Mountain Fuel again for this. I’ve used it once before and liked it and thought I needed all the help I could get. So I downed half a packet with my baguette, and filled my soft flasks with the other half. As usual I packed a full picnic: chocolate bars, sweets, flapjacks, Quorn sausages, Mountain Fuel sports jellies. The weather forecast was perfect, predicting single figure temperatures but outbreaks of sunshine. It would be cool on the tops though, and there would be a lot of tops, so I put on a merino long-sleeve with my vest.
The race had been allowed to go ahead because it was going to be Covid-secure. That meant only turning up to get your race number 15 minutes before your designated start time, designated start times that set people off in groups of no more than six, only packaged food at checkpoints, and no milling. Everyone was conforming to this when we turned up, ready for our 8.21 start, and with little faffing time, we were set off. We had a plan: 10 minute-miling to start with, and steady steady all the way. That way, Neil thought, we could comfortably finish in six hours and beat our time of last year (just over 6.30). He also thought we could win the mixed pair category, but I tried to put that out of my head. Steady, think of your knee, steady, steady, steady.
Image by Neil Wallace
I thought I knew the route. I’d recced most of it last year, and we’d run it of course, though partly in pouring rain. The weather this year was so far beautiful, with clear sunny skies. Maybe that’s why I realised I couldn’t remember much of the second mile through woodland. This was going to be a theme for the whole route, as it turned out that once again, I knew sections but not necessarily in the right order.
The route mostly follows the Burnley Way, a path that Visit Lancashire describes with odd grammar as “a 40-mile adventure from industrial heritage, along waterways, through fields, parks, old farms, and Forest of Burnley woodlands to the wild South Pennine Moors.” The route “has been recently updated and revised into six easy sections.” Easy? I knew there were more than 4,000 feet of climb over the 28 miles and that the biggest climb of all was at mile 20. At least, deep inside I knew but I was refusing to think about it.
Seven miles in, we reached the part that had caused chaos last year, with runners all over the place trying to find an elusive footbridge. So this year I had studied it online, calculating that we had to turn south a third of a mile after Shore Hey farm. Neil had also worked out when to turn, and this year we mostly got it right. On the hill ahead of us, runners appeared like Scottish warriors in an epic film; they had gone too far and were on their way back. If you don’t accidentally detour at least once on the Lancashireman, you’ve probably done it wrong. Jamie & crew do their best, with the odd chalked LORM and arrow, and the Burnley Way is waymarked now and then with a sunny B, but there are plenty of miles where it isn’t.
By now the runners who had gone the right way and runners who had gone the wrong way were all converging, so that up the hill on the far side of the bridge, the narrow singletrack path of stone steps — known as the Ogglty-Cogglty — became bottlenecked. This is a usual situation in fell running, but not in fell running during a pandemic. I turned and courteously asked the man behind me to back off, and he did. Neil meanwhile had a man behind him so close, it was clear he’d had garlic the day before. Asked to Ogglty-Cogglty off, politely, he didn’t, so it couldn’t be dismissed as thoughtlessness. It’s not like anyone was going anywhere fast: the climb was steep, no-one was running it, and it was packed solid. I really try to dampen my judginess in life these days, else I would spend my life internally fuming at people getting too close, wearing masks wrong, just being wrong. But this was unsettling.
Out of the woods, the sun was warmer than forecast, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot. We reached the first checkpoint, staffed by cheery marshals in green t-shirts. This was my first experience of a Covid-secure checkpoint and as advertised, all food was packaged – biscuits, chocolate bars, crisps – and water was dispensed from jugs. There could have been improvements such as a one-way funnel, but there was plenty of hand sanitizer and it was being done as safely as possible. You can never eliminate risk, just reduce it as best you can. A young woman who was pouring me water looked behind me and said, “well done Mum!”.
I was surprised, I think because I immediately pictured my own mother arriving behind me in a race. She is 80, and fabulous, and has been walking 12 miles a week during the pandemic, but she’s never going to be a fellrunner.
I asked the girl, stupidly, “your mother is running?”
“Yes, that’s her in the red.”
I turned to look. “How old is she?”
I said “oh shit,” and people laughed and I’m still not sure why I said that. There were no age categories in the mixed pair category and anyway, I wasn’t being competitive, remember? Still I kept an eye on her for a while until we drew away from her. Habit.
Soon we stopped to strip down to vest-only. Then onwards, up horrible tarmac, some fake-running for the photographer, who managed to make my short Welsh legs look even shorter.
My brain was busy calculating what was coming next. It was like that animation of a human brain using mechanical wheels and whirring. Finally the whirring stopped and I knew: Widdop reservoir and moorland. More whirring: A couple of miles across the tops of the moors, past Gorple Stones, down to Hurstwood reservoir and that would be halfway.
Far off in front of us was a young woman who I thought we would never catch. Then, as we turned off the road to boggy paths around Widdop reservoir, she slowed, and we passed her easily. I don’t know if the Lancashireman counts as a fell race but if you don’t have fell experience, obviously that will show in the boggy bits. Not that I didn’t fall. I did, but I made sure to fall on a soft bit.
The view from Gorple Stones was beautiful, as it always is. Later, we learned that a runner had fallen here and dislocated his shoulder. He’d been content to run on, until the marshals pointed out that his bone was several centimetres forward from where it should have been.
Hurstwood. I couldn’t have sped up, but I didn’t need to slow down or stop. I felt quite good, and we made sure to run harmoniously for Jamie’s camera.
Along the way we encountered two men running ahead of us. One had a very bloodied head. He had fallen, also after Gorple Stones. He was OK to go on, and said he would wash off in a beck, then didn’t. Finally I offered him a wet wipe, then had to dig around in my pack for it as of course my first aid kit was at the bottom of my copious dry bag of kit. “Sorry lass,” said David, of the bloodied head. “Sorry to hold you back.” Oh, we’re not competitive said Rose (the same Rose who knows exactly by how many minutes they came second eventually in the mixed pair category and calculates that this was probably the same amount of minutes lost helping David but that’s fine).
We ran on together, past the next checkpoint, along the thankless Long Causeway tarmac road, past cloughs and gullies. Before dropping down into the hamlet of Portsmouth, we passed through fields that had a powerful stink. We passed a tractor approaching with a trailer full of more fragrant manure, then reached the path, turned and saw him spraying it exactly where we’d just been. Lucky escape.
By now something strange was happening. I was running more. My legs would run when my brain didn’t want to. I felt stronger. It was very odd. Maybe it was the Mountain Fuel? It was useful though as the hardest climb was coming up, to Heald Moor and Thievley Pike. At this point, my poor memory was an advantage, because I had forgotten how long and steep the climb was, so I just put my head down and climbed. Behind me, two women were telling two other runners what was coming up. “Horrendous! The worst climb ever! It’s awful!” I wondered at this. It wasn’t horrendous, it definitely wasn’t the worst climb ever, and if it was that awful, why were you doing the race? It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the views back to the other side of the valley were lovely. Perhaps that negativity got them up the hill more easily. Whatever works.
Image by Neil Wallace
Me, I was enjoying it. I was running easily and not tiring. My knee was sore but not disabling. And we only had a few miles left. Down into the grandiose Townley Hall, where we ran past a footballer lying on the ground and I thought, I bet a fell-runner would run through whatever injury he has. Past families with ice-cream, and a young girl who looked at me and asked her mother what I was doing. “She’s running!” But I wasn’t at that point, so then I had to.
There was only one short real climb to go, but it was uphill to Todmorden Road before that. Then along above the railway, with runners around us clearly tiring but enduring, as we were. Through the Kilns, where I directed a chatty pair from Accrington. At least, she was chatty. He wasn’t, and had to be chivvied, if chivvying consists of “COME ON MICK.” I’ve never seen a man running with clingfilm wrapped around his leg before, and I won’t forget Mick’s. They were both doing the relay, which you could do in pairs or threes or more. Mick made it to the end, clingfilm and all.
Finally, after we had run away from Burnley to run back to it, we were running down into town, past someone getting their Morrison’s delivery, and a smile from the young woman driving the van, to the canal where of course I wanted to go to the wrong way and almost set off on the route again. The last bit seemed such a long stretch though it was probably only half a mile. Then, eventually, the sound of clapping and cheering and there was Sandygate plaza, and some steps to run up that were nothing as bad as Butt Lane at the end of the Yorkshireman, but also not flat. We got to Jamie at the top and then: where was the finish line? Stop, said Jamie, stop! You’ve finished. This is it. He was it.
28 miles on little training and through niggles and cramp, but it was fun. It was good to be out racing again amongst beautiful scenery and the like-minded. It was good to pin a number on my race vest again, and pull out the rainbow race socks. It was good to stop and eat the two Quorn sausages that I had been carrying for six hours. It was good to be out, away from bad news and more bad news, to run past a man with binoculars and think, what a lovely smile he has, to be greeted with good cheer by everyone, to have my sinuses cleared by fresh cow shit.
Six hours. Actually it was 6.07. That was fine, and 25 minutes quicker than we had done the year before. Better weather this time, but worse training. Though last year I had run the Yorkshireman a week earlier. We placed second mixed pair after a couple from Clayton-le-Moors. We will do better next year, because I will definitely be back to the dark side, if the pandemic allows.
We are now into day three of our lock down in Spain (where we have a house). We are comfortable and have a full fridge and freezer. The authorities are trying their best to keep some semblance of normality and food stores and services such as bin emptying etc are continuing. No restaurants, non-food stores, gyms, play areas, beaches or public areas are open and we are not allowed to leave our homes without good reason.
The isolation at first seems easy then it really kicks in, within 24 hours. To try and explain how it feels: you suddenly have none of the everyday noises that are a constant in the background. I am hearing so many things from wildlife that I never knew about which is good but to hear no traffic, walkers, runners or cyclists or people to just nod or pass the time of day with, that is the real element of isolation. The silence is strange and deafening. I get excited when I here other voices outside: people, real people! We rush to the window to see who it is.
Being confined to your home is not as easy as you think. We are allowed to go to the supermarkets for food but that is all. Police are on constant patrol making sure people stay at home. We are not in a very densely populated area yet they are still able to patrol at regular intervals. The biggest thing for me is that I miss my family especially my mum. Having lost my dad in January it is particularly hard for us both. I also think I will miss my son’s 30th but I hope we can celebrate in style at a later date.
Why don’t you come home? I hear you say. Because we drove down and to set off back to the UK home I need to be sure I can make the full journey, and that we have enough fuel, food and will find places to stop. When I arrive home I’m sure you will all be in isolation so I will have to repeat this and I don’t want to do it twice.
Panic shopping took place here as well although loo roll is still widely available! I did however question one man’s priority as he had a trolley loaded with wine. Each to their own.
Our lockdown progresses to another stage today in that all major roads will be blocked by the police and armed forces to prevent people moving around. The police are armed here which also makes it feel very different and I will admit a bit scary.
I have seen comments on various sites about the cancellation of various races and the disappointment. I totally understand this and suggest you enjoy the hills while you can and look forward to your return to them, as the lockdown is heading your way.
I have managed to sneak out in the early hours to do a short run in the hills behind me and am lucky enough to be able to train on the solarium roof but it’s not the same as running freely. For fit and healthy people isolation is not an easy ask.
I strongly suggest you dig out your jigsaws, books and good old family games. Don’t underestimate what isolation does. Panic shopping is one thing but adapting your daily routine to confinement and restrictions to your liberty is another, especially when there is no defined end to this scenario.
Stay safe folks and I look forward to returning to a place where we can all move around freely.
Why are we having a sprint finish Will? I’m sure a slow
little trot would suffice. We still have about 40 minutes until our time is up.
It’s an odd feeling running (or shuffling) along tarmac after almost 12 hours
of bashing about in waist-height heather. My legs had become accustomed to the
slow pace, high knee, bracken gallumping from last night, and now they were
being asked to move quickly. But, if you ask nicely enough, they sure get their
act together and oblige. We crashed over the line and landed the final dib of
the night. Whoa, what a night eh? It was nice to see that Will was looking as
wrecked as I was but still smiling.
The days leading up to Dark Mountains was full of the usual mountain marathon (MM) kit prepping and organisation.* Running through the kit list and laying everything on the floor, before playing Tetris trying to stuff it all in my bag. Something a bit unique on the list was an ice axe and micro spikes, but thankfully the weather was warm enough so they weren’t needed. Saturday night quickly approached and before we knew it, we were standing at the start line. Joking with the marshals who said we looked like the springiest runners they had seen so far. I don’t think I felt it though. At exactly 18:44 we were handed our race map with a splatter of checkpoints sprawled across it. We worked out a rough plan, and then headed out onto the fells excited for what the night would bring.
As perfectly described in the planner’s insight, the terrain was notoriously rough. They even advised on avoiding one particularly bad section marked “Here Be Dragons!” As always for the first handful of checkpoints, we were leap-frogging other teams until the field thinned out. The weather was relatively dry and mild, but the fog was thick on the tops creating that ever so helpful glare from your headtorch. Around the fifth checkpoint we decided on a different route choice to the other teams that were near; and we soon ended up in the dark by ourselves. As a kid I used to be scared of the dark. I remember one particular night-time bike ride through the local woods in Newcastle. I had recently watched Predator, so every rustle in the bushes made me jump. I got too scared of the dark and begged my dad to take me back to the car. However, over the years I now find being in the dark second nature, especially when you are with someone else. This is because if Predator does turn up, you push over your partner and let them be taken ha ha! (Sorry Will…)
The first few hours ticked away nicely, and we picked
off the checkpoints without too much bother. But around midnight I began to
feel cold and tired. I pushed on for a couple more checkpoints and I got
quieter and quieter. Only saying the odd “a bit more left” or “a bit more
right” if we were straying from the bearing. This was the first time in a race
where quitting crossed my mind. I realised that if I didn’t put on more layers
and eat more food the next 6 hours were going to be rough. I put on my
waterproof trousers for the first time ever in a race, and had some sausage
rolls and energy bars. I soon perked up, and we even took the luxury of
stopping and turning off our headtorches to admire the stars. They were some of
the clearest I’d seen in the UK for a long time. This was the boost that we
More hours of bumbling about passed with plenty of trips
and falls. The most memorable was when Will’s legs disappeared into a hole, and
he bashed his bum as he folded in. As we ran over rocky sections, we would sing
“ROCKS-ANNE” in the tune of The Police song. Something I found a bit too funny considering the crap joke. The
final few hours passed quickly, and we were soon faced with a classic MM
decision. Take it easy home, or go for glory with one more checkpoint and then run
like hell. To Will’s dismay I managed to persuade him of the latter, and to go
for one final 25 pointer. Thankfully, the running gods were on our side and we
made quick progress leaving us a whole hour to get back. This didn’t stop us
from the sprint finish down the last track though! It was great fun hammering
it down the slippery slope, skidding around other teams on their return. We crossed
the line to the claps of the marshals. I wonder if they thought we still looked
Our splits were downloaded, and to our shock we had somehow come in 1st out of the 13 teams that were back. But there were still another 16 teams to finish so let’s not get our hopes up just yet. It was going to be a nervous 45 minutes wait until 7am. This would mark 12 hours since the last long score team set off and therefore would confirm our final position. In the meantime, we staggered over to the café and shovelled some food into our faces. To Will’s delight they had a decent vegan breakfast for the competitors. Hash browns, mushrooms, beans, Linda sausages, toast and ample tea and coffee. We sat in the event tent getting warm and watching other competitors crawl through the door. During this time, we saw a rather exhausted, cold and wet Mike Ayers stumble in and slump into his chair, bag still fully strapped to his back. He had been out on the medium score with his usual MM buddy Toby White. Mike was in good spirits as always, especially since he had managed to run for 10 hours without too much bother from his knee. Finally, just after 7am we checked the results and our final ranking was 3rd! Woohoo, absolutely epic. We were not expecting to do this well, especially as this was Will’s first MM. We realised that we were only 20 points clear of 4th, so good job we went for that final 25 pointer.
We wobbled to the car and changed into dry clothes and
attempted a few hours of kip before hitting the road home. When I shut my eyes,
my brain replayed images of map contours and the scan of heather with my
headtorch. Clearly my brain was still stuck on navigation mode. After a couple
hours of restless sleep, we watched the prizegiving and then carefully began
the drive home. The deal, as always, is that if the driver is tired, the
passenger can’t snooze and they must act as DJ. Will did not disappoint and
played some bangers. I was most impressed by him not snoozing, as in his
delirious state he thought it was raining inside the service station bookshop. We
chatted nonsense and dreamt up plans for future adventures. Will has definitely
caught the MM bug as there were talks of the Saunders, ROC, OMM and the
Scottish. How many of these events can we do in a year? Answer: N+1.
*Ed’s note: a regular mountain marathon usually happens over two days. The Dark Mountains marathon packs all that into one night instead. Competitors chose between linear courses of varying distances, or a fixed time — a “score” — in which they had to reach as many checkpoints as possible. Short score (8 hours), medium score (10 hours), long score (12 hours).
As 2019 was the year for dubious world records and associated PB claims in athletics (no offence, Eliud 😉), I thought why not celebrate my lovely new NLFR vest by staking my own tenuous claim for a world record, OK fastest known time (FKT), for the Fellpack Triple Expresso.
My brother Steve and I already held the FKT, and whilst being the only known participants lessens the claim somewhat, our achievements were made without the use of rotating pacers or state-of-the-art Nikes (just our dad on the latter two tops and in my case, Salomons with more miles on the clock than I care to mention) so it’s worth shouting about, right? As our previous attempt was completed in a St Theresa’s AC vest (and Keswick AC who Steve runs for) I thought we’d best go claim some Cumbrian glory in NLFR’s name. It’s probably worth pointing out at this stage, the Triple Expresso doesn’t really exist as a concept outside of the Jones family: We came up with the idea over a beer and Steve christened it as a friendly nod to Fellpack’s near neighbour George Fishers and its Espresso Round. (Expresso after an express train as well as the drink.)
a bar/café/restaurant (https://www.fellpack.co.uk/) on Lake Road in
Keswick, and has rapidly established itself as something of a Mecca for outdoor
enthusiasts of all kinds. For those seeking to refuel after a day on the
fells, it offers a comprehensive range of tasty snacks and meals (including
lots of GF & vegan options). If rehydration is more your bag, it’s
fully licensed with a good selection of lagers and ales, and if you’re looking
for inspiration for your next adventure there’s knowledgeable staff, plenty of
outdoorsy books kicking about and the walls are adorned with running club vests
and photos of top fell runners.
Fellpack run informal challenges for their clientele to bag some of the local fells. You get on the leader board for running to either Walla Crag, Catbells or Latrigg, taking a selfie at the top, and getting back to the café for a celebratory slice of cake. For a few years now I’ve done the Walla Dash on the weekend before Christmas, and last year we thought we’d try to be the first people to run all 3 of the designated fells, starting and finishing at the Fellpack, and revisiting inbetween!
2018’s effort was 3 hours 7 minutes 32 seconds. We adopted the same strategy for Christmas 2019: we would tackle the out and back run to Catbells first, which is the biggest of the climbs and has the fastest road sections of the day leading to and from it. I think the weather was marginally worse this year, but there wasn’t a lot in it and I guess we summitted in within a minute or two of our 2018 time. You’ve got a decent run back through Portinscale to the Fellpack, but like last year I soon went from “feeling good, best conserve some energy” to the more familiar “crikey, it’s going to be long afternoon” as I went up the deceptively steep Springs Road on the way to the main climb up to Walla Crag. We were pretty much breaking even on time at the second summit (we’d done leg one 2 minutes faster than 2018, so must have been a fair bit slower to lose so much time up the relatively short climb from town to Walla) but we got back to the Fellpack for the penultimate time with a couple of minutes grace back in the bag.
After a short run across town you are then faced with the short sharp climb of Spooney Green Lane that will be familiar to anyone who has tackled Skiddaw. The lane is a swine at the best of times but even worse with 20km in the legs. It gets sharper when you pull off the main path and take the shortest but steepest ascent to Latrigg’s summit as per the Latrigg fell race. As is often the case, we saw some hikers mistakenly celebrating getting to the top at the false summit by the bench just shy of the real peak (for those seeking a photo op, for my money this is has the most rewarding ratio in terms of effort against view in the Lakes, but only if you take more windy walkers path!). Steve took rather too much enjoyment pointing out their error and sent them to the true summit in the cloud a couple of hundred metres away. I was too tired to join in the banter, but I’m sure the look on my face said something along the lines of “I know, I can’t be bothered either.”
We soon met Dad at the top. I can’t be sure, but I think his words of encouragement were along the lines of “best get cracking if you want to beat your record”. Thanks, Dad! By this point I’d forgotten our previous splits for the various peaks/return visits to Fellpack so I don’t know how long it had taken to get from Latrigg back to town the last time, but I was aware we had 19 minutes to beat our PB. On reflection I should have realised how doable it was as it’s just a couple of miles of downhill fell running, and flattish road. (By comparison Kenny Stuart’s longstanding record for the “up & down” Latrigg fell race is a mind boggling 16 minutes 30 odd seconds.) But it wasn’t until we got off Spooney Green Lane and towards the back of Keswick Pool that I was confident of a PB.
So, after just short of 25lm run and 1400m climbed, we got back to Fellpack in 3.04.52; a good two and a half minute PB, a Christmas tradition extended and, perhaps only for a short time, joint bragging rights for NFLR with Keswick AC (there’s worse clubs to share a claim to fame with). I think we tackled the peaks in the best order, but if anyone was using this for a Yorkshire 3 Peaks training run and not bothered about records I’d suggest Latrigg, Catbells then Walla. That way you get the mimic Pen-y-Ghent’s short sharp climb not too warmed up, and some fast road running an hour or two in. If anyone wants clarity on route on rules, feel free to give Steve or me a shout on Facebook.
I’d love to
think we can take the record below 3 hours, but there’s nothing to be learned
in terms of route really, and perhaps only marginal benefits coming off grassy
Catbells and Latrigg in better weather, so I’d be looking at doubling last
year’s fitness gains to be in with a chance. With any luck, hopefully someone
else will rise to the challenge and take it below 3 hours first. You never
know, they may just be wearing a NLFR top?
Damn it’s rainy; this mud is thick; it’s blowing a hoolie; my fingers are cold; hope this bearing is right; I’m knackered; woohoo the finish! These were just some of the thoughts that ran through my mind during Trigger – but what a race! I was feeling nervous, but seeing familiar and excited faces at the start calmed me down. The cricket clubhouse was bustling with excited runners ready to get out and hammer some miles into their legs. There are not many people I know that get excited about waking up at 5:20am, catching a bus in the dark, and then running a 25-mile fell race in mid-January. But I guess this is why I love fell running. It’s nice knowing that you are not the only nutter out there.
We lined up at the start just as the sun was rising and as the rain set in nicely. A perfect way to start the day. We set off around the reservoirs and up to the A635. I found myself in a group with fellow NLFR Matt and Uni pal Alec. The slippery flagstones to Black Hill were treacherous underfoot and the wind and rain were beginning to sap away my warmth. Once at the top we hit the first of the nav sections. Thankfully the visibility was good, and I was able to see the line through the heather and into the valley towards Crowden. Alec thought he wasn’t wet enough so went for a little swim in a bog. Maybe he is practicing for a triathlon?
After a very sketchy road crossing that could have ended our race a bit more abruptly than planned, I added my extra layer and munched down some food. The climb up Torside Clough was tough but the views were worth it. Beautiful white cloud rolled over the steep craggy sides. As we left the Pennine Way the path turned into shoe-eating bog. Coming up was the second nav section to Higher Shelf Trig. I was not overly confident about this part. We were now a group of 5 and to my displeasure the two new members to our party didn’t know where they were going either. This meant the tricky nav landed on me… great. Not ideal, but we pushed on. You really must trust your bearing when you can only see about 50 yards and someone you have never met before questions your route choice. But if they want to sponge off you then they must deal with it! We hit the trig a bit further west than planned and picked up the trod. Sadly, this is where I messed up. We reached the end of the trod and rather than cutting south-east and picking up the Pennine Way again, I began following the path west into the wrong valley. Balls. Thankfully, Matt questioned this line and we turned around to make the walk of shame back.
As we hit Snake Top, we began passing the Spine racers, who were ladened with heavy packs. I was glad to only have a few more hours rather than a few more days left. The descent down Within Clough provided a much-needed respite from the wind and rain. By the time we hit checkpoint 6 we had lost Alec and it was just me and Matt. I learnt later that Alec had pulled his groin here and had to walk the rest of the way home. Poor lad, he must have been gutted. I began to bonk along Kinder, and I told Matt not to wait for me any more. I was jealous of the spring still left in his legs.
The blasted cold made my fingers disobey me as I struggled to get out my sweets. Finally, after what felt like an age, I was able to get the much-needed hit of sugar. The sugar must have caused my mind to wander leading to the betrayal of my legs and a subsequent commando roll down Jacob’s Ladder. Luckily this was on soft mud and not the rocky staircase. I took the final section of the Pennine Way from Upper Booth to Edale steady and plodded across the finish line in 4hrs 39mins, only a couple of minutes behind Matt.
After changing into dry warm clothes and a double serving of veggie stew and hot squash we sat in Edale village hall swapping stories from the day with the other nutters.
The Bob Graham Round, as all fell runners know, is steeped in legend by the vast history of attempts from running legends like Billy Bland, Joss Naylor, Rob Jebb, Nicky Spinks, Jasmin Paris, and Kilian Jornet, and the list goes on! Like many runners I caught the Bob Graham bug after reading Feet in the Clouds by Richard Askwith. So, when my good running pal Dan said he was going to give it an attempt this summer, the itch to give it a go really kicked in. For those who don’t know, the BGR was devised in 1932 by Bob Graham, a hotelier of Keswick. It amounts to 66 miles over 42 Lakeland peaks with over 27,000ft of elevation, all to be completed within 24 hours. It is split into five legs as with four road crossings where you can fill up on food and water if you have a support crew.
Dan asked me to support him on the first two legs, so I began training hard as I wanted to make sure I was fit enough. As he is living in the Lakes, I knew he would be super speedy and strong on the hills. About a month before the proposed start date, we ran a rather wet and windy Abrahams Tea Round which amounted to a tasty 30 miles and 11,000ft of elevation. I felt good on that which showed my training was paying off, and Dan began to fill my head with words of encouragement that I would be fit enough to join him for the entire BGR. The combination of these two elements began to convince me that it might be possible.
Another two weeks of training passed and during a successful recce of leg 3, I told Dan that I was in, and I would do the round with him. Ooo scary! I only told a handful of people that I was attempting the whole round, I didn’t want the pressure of having to succeed. However, all I actually wanted to do was blurt it out to everyone I met.
Leg 1 Keswick to Threlkeld
The Friday was a rush with last-minute packing, finishing work, trying to snooze, and eating lots. Before I knew it, we were standing at Moot Hall awaiting our midnight start. Barry, who was covering Dan’s Saturday shift at Keswick youth hostel, came out to take a snap of us both and wish us good luck. It was nice to start the round without many spectators as it took the pressure off us, it felt like we were just going out for a night run in the fells, no biggie.
As we climbed higher up Skiddaw the clag set in and by the time we reached the top it was difficult to make out the edge of the path. However, thanks to Dan’s knowledge of the first leg we had no issue finding the trods that took us to Great Calva and then onto Blencathra. Even though it was pretty wet due to the mist we decided to go down the main scramble of Halls Fell as we had recently got lost trying to find a cleaner line during a recce. We were slightly down on schedule when we arrived in Threlkeld, but Dan’s parents, Kevin and Lucy, had some hot food and a cuppa waiting.
Leg 2 Threlkeld to Dumnail Raise
The clag was the same for most of the leg 2 and we nearly lost Watsons Dodd, but due to a bit more luck than skill it appeared out of the mist after a worried few minutes. It’s crazy how you can get turned around when the visibility is poor and you don’t pay attention to your bearing! Just as we were topping out of Helvellyn the sun began to poke its head out from beneath the horizon and we were both lost for words by the beauty of it all. This gave us beaming smiles as we bounded down to the awaiting crew at Dunmail Raise.
Leg 3 Dunmail Raise to Wasdale
We picked up Abel and Pete for leg 3 who were both brilliant with reminding us to eat and drink. Also Abel’s nav was spot on. It was nice to relax a bit and at some points I felt like a little lost puppy as I hooked onto the back of Abel’s heels and blindly followed his every step as he guided us through the rocky rough stuff. Some friends, Dave and Sheila, met us on Scafell Pike and were able to get some brilliant pics on the top. We all looked really cheery even though Dan’s foot had somehow managed to fight its way through the side of his shoe. This isn’t ideal when you have a 2800ft descent off the top of Scafell with a fair amount of scree running. But thanks to some trusty climbing tape the shoe held all the way down to Wasdale.
Leg 4 Wasdale to Honister
I can see why they call Wasdale the graveyard of the Bob Graham as the climb up Yewbarrow is not what you want after your legs have been jellified from that descent. Thankfully the gravedigger did not come calling as we set off with our two fresh new supporters Calum and Sam. As we summited Yewbarrow we bumped into a couple who were sipping on white wine in the sun as they had just completed all the Wainwrights in only three years: kudos to them! Leg 4 was tough, and I had a couple of low moments due to feeling bloated from all the food we had been eating. But after munching on a fresh banana I soon felt better and the miles ticked away. It was nice having Calum and Sam acting as our mums constantly giving us water, slices of pizza and sweeties. On the final descent from Grey Knotts, we both knew that completing the round was going to be possible. This gave us a huge rush of endorphins which pushed us down to Honister.
Leg 5 Honister to Keswick
After more tea and hot food, we picked up Abel again and the 5 of us headed up Dale Head in a jolly mood. Only three more tops! The sun was starting to set, and we basked in the golden light for the final hour on the fells. When we topped out on Robinson, Dan and I embraced in an emotional hug as neither of us could believe what we had just achieved. The steep grassy descent off the top hurt the knees, so a bit of bum sliding made an appearance. It’s a great idea until a load of prickles get stuck in your undershorts. We made a quick change into fresh socks, club vests and road shoes for the final 10km along the road and bounded off with excitement. Surprisingly we were all going at quite a pace considering, and by the time we hit Keswick high street we were doing a full-on sprint. What a feeling to climb the stairs of Moot Hall like so many running legends and have all our supporters there cheering and clapping. We clocked in at 20 hours and 3 minutes, over 40 minutes ahead of our schedule! There were more emotional hugs all round and we just couldn’t stop smiling. This certainly won’t be a moment I will ever forget. I did not really realise how much of a welcoming running community there is in Keswick until people I had never met before were congratulating me and Dan. One guy summed it up nicely by simply saying “Welcome to the club lads!” There is no better way of celebrating the best day out on the fells either of us have ever had than by going to the pub with good company for some food and beers.
I want to say thank you to Kevin and Lucy Cade for their excellent road support and for supplying some of the best cups of tea I’ve ever had. Thank you Abel, Pete, Calum and Sam for their superb leg support and for keeping us smiling when it got tough. And thanks also to Dave and Sheila for the quality photos, they captured the memories of the day perfectly.