Seven summits, 2370m of climbing, 28km and only 250 places.
When I first heard about the Isle of Jura Fell Race a few years ago, I regarded it very much as one of those races for people who knew what they were doing. At that stage, I wasn’t one of them. Intrigue gradually turned into serious consideration when on repeated half term visits to Tayvallich, we would see runners returning from Jura on the Jura passenger ferry. I pledged to do it when I turned fifty, but my wife Martha encouraged me to stick an entry in this year. They only admit 250 runners each year and a place was not guaranteed on the first attempt. I went from 18th on the waiting list to one of the lucky 250 in a very short time. It seemed to be happening and I was pretty daunted.
For anyone unfamiliar with Jura, it is renowned for a few things: whisky, Nineteen Eighty-Four (which George Orwell wrote on Jura) and (if you read NME in the 90s) the KLF burning a million pounds there. It is also host to the annual fell race, a circuit of 17 miles and an eye-watering 2370m of ascent. The route takes in seven significant peaks, most notably the three Paps of Jura, which dominate the skyline. When the weather is clear enough to see them that is.
The adventure started with an early morning boat trip across the Sound of Jura from Tayvallich. The boat I was on was usually deployed for wildlife cruises, so the pilot couldn’t help himself pausing halfway there to point out a pod of porpoises, a welcome distraction from my pre-race nerves. The first sight of Jura from the ferry did nothing to ease my navigational anxiety. Low cloud hung like a wet dishcloth over the island, obscuring all but the lowest foothills. The forecast promised brighter skies later, so I clung onto some hope as I arrived on the island and looked for a tent-sized spot on the crowded (and midge-infested) campsite. It felt like arriving late to a festival.
Having distracted myself with pitching my tent, registration and kit check there was nothing left to do but soak up the pre-race atmosphere and try to contain my nerves. There was a real mixture of Jura veterans, relative newcomers and first-timers like me. It was comforting to have my NLFR vest recognised by another first timer and ex-NLFR member, Will, who cheerily confessed that navigation-wise, he was very much going to be winging it. Amidst the pre-race anxiety, it’s hard to get away from the feeling that everyone else seems to have more of a clue what they’re doing than you do. Maybe it was all going to be okay.
Amidst some signs of brightening weather and a stirring bagpipe send-off, the race got underway. The first couple of miles were fairly standard fell race fare: a steady, bog-ridden climb up into the aforementioned low cloud, which showed no sign of shifting. Descending out of the cloud after the second checkpoint though, the race began to feel like no other. Views opened up to the sea and the coast of Islay to the west and blue skies framed the route ahead. It was one of those moments of fell-running exhilaration when everything comes together. And it looked like I might actually get the clear visibility I’d been praying for.
The view couldn’t have been clearer as I headed towards what the route description bills as “probably the most intimidating climb in British fell running”, Benn a Chaolish (pronounced Hoolish), the first of The Paps. The glorious sunshine, surging endorphins and spectacular vista probably took the edge off the intimidation, but this was a monster of a climb nonetheless and I had to fight the urge to sit down for a rest half-way up.
The second and third Paps (Benn an Oirr and Benn Shiantaidh) are already a glorious blur in my memory, but each punishing ascent seemed to come far too soon after the last. The marshals on top of the third Pap were helping runners to celebrate the ascent by pumping out banging techno from a bluetooth speaker and plying us with wine gums. A bit on the chewy side for race sustenance in my view, but I gratefully accepted a couple.
After a horrible descent off the third Pap involving a scree chute and a very wobbly boulder field I was on track for the final ascent to checkpoint 7. Surprisingly, the bagpipers from the start of the race had also made the ascent and were piping runners up the last climb – stirring stuff! It was all downhill from here, albeit it on “awful trods across desperate bogs” as the race-map describes it. I was feeling pretty desperate by this stage and was struggling to get my head round the fact that I’d only covered 10 miles of the 17. I had, however, dealt with all 2370 metres of ascent, which my legs were painfully aware of.
Three Arch Bridge marks the end of the fell section, but not the end of the race. A three-mile slog along a flat tarmac (and in some sections aluminium) road completes the course. This is the longest flat three miles I have ever run. Craighouse was in view for much of the way but did not appear to be getting any closer. I was in no fit state to enjoy the view of white sandy beaches to the left, or the chocolate digestives that one supporter was proffering from the roadside. I finally made it to the finish, clocking in at 5 hours and 6 minutes. Respectable if not remarkable.
I’ve never been so relieved to have finished a race, but I was immediately sorry it was over. I spent the rest of the day and evening in a bit of a daze, so much so that I completely missed the prize-giving gathering. I did make it to the traditional fell race ceilidh, but I was happy to observe from the sidelines rather than attempt any dancing.
This was such a special race to take part in, not just for the race itself, but for the whole experience. I’d urge anyone who might have toyed with the idea of tackling The Paps to give it a go. It didn’t take long before I was wondering how I might fare in the V50 category next time…
Inspired by nostalgic memories of the NLFR Bob Graham weekend (3rd day, June 19th 2022) when I first encountered some of this route under clear skies and balmy temperatures, I’d tucked this fell race away in a memory bank for a future me with fresher legs. Then of course, Helen and Dan raced it in 2023 (finishing in that same order), so the race remained of high interest.
Fast forward to the present and the race was further nudged forward into my consciousness by Dave Middlemas praising it highly for all the right reasons (good route, not to mention hospitality by Keswick AC). So, I was still interested, and the date was looking clear in my diary.
A few minor obstacles bothered me, namely that I didn’t know anyone else on the entry list or intending to enter on the day. Normally this doesn’t worry me, but this was a Lakes race, and these tend to involve a higher level of grit and skill than I’m capable of. (I did get momentarily confused and think that Hefin, Adam Nodwell and Angeline were all doing it, but then belatedly realized I was looking at the 2023 entry list by mistake.)
What if there was terrible visibility and I got lost? Certainly, reading through the race description on the back of the Pete Bland map (warning about the “monstrous cock up” potential when contouring the Dodds didn’t fill me with hope when already there was doubt).
Additionally, I don’t like driving and the plan involved me driving solo to the Lakes. Believe it or not, both factors caused me a fair amount of anxiety. I prepared for it by potentially sabotaging my race legs by racing the Wednesday (Blackstone Edge Fell Race) and Thursday (Kildwick Fell Race) in the run up to it. Both races were short (only 6KM but punchy enough, with Blackstone Edge creeping up into the AS category). In fact, I was tired before Kildwick and used my pre-race time to have a power nap in my car with my dry robe as a duvet, rather than warm up.
I only finally decided to finally race Helvellyn on Friday morning. Taking Joe’s advice, I flipped a coin, and it was heads which meant I was doing the race!
Race day on Saturday: early start from Leeds with a hearty porridge breakfast lining my stomach (thanks, Joe) and I was off on the road. Because I was anxious, I arrived at Threlkeld Cricket Club at 9.10am (the race didn’t start until 11am), so I had time to talk to Mark Lamb who was on car park duty and fret about (but more importantly sort out) a warning light which had come on the dashboard in my car as I was arriving. This also gave me time to think about post-race decisions (I was likely to be fatigued from the cognitive and physical demands of the day), so I laid my stuff out into two sealed bags for afterwards: shower and change bag, snacks and drinks bag.
The weather was starting to warm up. It wasn’t “Fairfield warm” but at 18 degrees, it was warm enough to pink my Irish skin if I wasn’t careful. Cue a second slather of suntan lotion and more chats with Mark Lamb (checking shoe recommendations). I had an unexpected surprise when I bumped into a friend of a friend (Kat) as well as actual friends (Alyson and Gina who completely unbeknownst to me had decided to run the Bob Graham leg 2 route at the same time, having been inspired by our friend Tom Howard who was attempting to do the Bob Graham, having set off at 8.30pm the previous night). The lovely Katie Kars Sijpesteijn had also entered on the day, so it was good to have a pre-race hug and catch up. Already, things were looking up!
The race started on a tarmac section where the smiley Keswick AC marshals counted the runners in and completed a kit check and then not long after that, we were away! Who needs a warmup anyway when you’re running up Clough Head…?
The start felt frantic, but then, don’t they always? It’s always hard to know where to place yourself in the pack, especially if there are fewer female runners and everyone looks like they know what they’re doing.
After the tarmac, there was a “tussocky scrat” across Threlkeld common which preceded the climb up Clough Head. I was slightly alarmed by a call of “ROCK” as a fellow runner yelled down from the summit to warn us below of a fast-approaching rock gathering pace in our direction. After that mild drama, my senses were heightened and I allowed myself a minute to laugh nervously with the runner next to me, before cracking on with getting to the top.
By now, I’d eyed up a woman running ahead of me in a purple vest. She looked strong and determined and stood out because she was leading a small pack of male runners. She became my target for the first two check points. We later talked (Karen from Northumberland Fell Runners) as I had noted her effective descending skills which were rather galloping in style, and I wanted to pass on my admiration.
I think I finally overtook Karen somewhere around Raise and our paths didn’t cross again until after the race back at the Cricket Club where we greeted each other like long lost friends. I take comfort in these small moments in races, sharing smiles and small talk, validating each other’s race experiences. When the race is over, it’s hard to fully describe it to anyone else who wasn’t there but the other runners in the field know, they really know.
The terrain was lovely, really. Lots of extended grassy and undulating bits to allow you to settle in and find your place and pace. I tried to take note of the ascents and descents as I enjoyed the swooping downhill bits, which would clearly hurt on the return leg. As we followed each other up to Raise and I marveled at the clear visibility, it occurred to me that due to the popularity of the route, it was hard to distinguish between runners and walkers from afar. But despite the field getting more stretched out, things were still okay, phew. And the breeze on the summits was lovely: cool, but not too cool. I felt glad for the Keswick summit heroes who smiled us through the check points and genuinely looked like they were having a nice time.
Not long after Raise (although it’s hard to be fully certain), the first few runners came hurtling back towards us looking determined with their eyes on the prize. The lead was Sam Holding (CFR) with Mark Lamb (Keswick) in second place.
The climb up White Side and Helvellyn Low Man wasn’t too technical, and the race photographer greeted us at the top like a host of a gathering to an outdoor summit party.
I was more in awe of the leading women trickling through, also looking determined and mighty. There was Hannah from Helm Hill looking comfortable in front, a runner from Eden in second place and then Katie in third. I saw Katie descending off Helvellyn summit and called out to her. I then cursed myself for doing so and I’m glad she didn’t look my way (or hear me, as I later found out). Counting through the women, I knew I was currently in 7th . Not bad, I told myself. Keep going.
The return journey involved more sideway looks and reassuring words with other runners who were either struggling with the onset of cramps or dehydration. One runner asked me how many climbs were left as he had run out of water. Er, I’m not sure, I said. I wasn’t sure how honest to be but then realized that my response wasn’t helpful.
Not long after one of the slightly rocky descents, a female runner tore past me. I had her in my sights for a while after that but then realized this was fruitless. She had paced the race very well and finished strongly. Somewhere around Great Dodd (maybe…), a runner from Helm Hill told me we’d been running for 2 and a half hours, and could we finish in under 3 hours. I laughed at that thought, but it lifted my spirits because the end was getting closer.
Clough Head descent, oh boy. Starting with some descending on my bum action and then a slight shuffle but at least I was moving downwards. And no one around me was going much faster. The above runner who had run out of water earlier on was still nearby, but he was slowing and almost stationary.
I was glad to reach the road before heading into Threlkeld common. There, I saw someone sunbathing on the grass. Upon closer inspection, it was a runner whose race hadn’t gone to plan. I asked him if he wanted to walk in the final section of the race together, but he politely declined.
The final tarmac section back to the Cricket Club felt mean and hard on both the feet and the mind. The finish line was soon upon me, and it felt glorious. I caught up with Katie (who had changed and was looking fresh as a daisy). In my post-race giddy exuberance, I was keen for company, and it was great to see a friendly face at the end.
Returning to my car and checking my phone, I was jolted back into the real world. Attentional demands from various WhatsApp groups flooded in. I wasn’t ready for this, not yet. I stayed in the present and put the phone away until my brain recharged. Although delighted to be finished, I missed the simplicity of the race where you only need to think about fuelling and putting one foot in front of another.
Basking in the warm glow of the Keswick AC hospitality (cake, sandwiches, hot drinks…) and watching the cricket (which was strangely hypnotic with the majestic backdrop of Clough Head), I swapped race tales with people around me. I must have sat there for an hour easily, before finally breaking the spell and moving away.
Maybe I am a fell runner who races in the Lakes, after all. I challenged myself and I felt proud. Same time, next year? Definitely!
Hydration: electrolytes in water and flat coke
Fuelling: Homemade energy balls (thanks Alyson) and some Veloforte chunks.
“You’ve come all the way here before to do a 20-minute race?” exclaimed Adam in surprise. He wasn’t referring to the race we were about to do – the 10-mile Fairfield Horseshoe – but to my several previous visits to Rydal for the Ambleside Guides race (1.5 miles, last Thursday in July). As we lined up for the start I tried to explain that (in my mind) a race is just the focal point of a day out. In the case of Ambleside Guides, as much about the mildly eccentric spectacles of grass-track cycling, hound trails and Cumberland & Westmoreland wrestling that come before and after. Adam didn’t seem immediately convinced, and indeed there’s a pervading view in fellrunning that a long journey is only justified by a proportionally long race.
But to press my case further, here’s how the 2 hours spent on Saturday’s Fairfield Horseshoe fitted into my day as a whole:
0530: Alarm
0730: Departure from Bradford after the usual painstaking gathering of gear and other stuff for every eventuality. Today, this includes 4 separate water bottles of different volumes – 500ml, 750ml, 1 litre, 1.5 litres. I appreciate driving through Shipley traffic-free, a rare event. The Dales look stunning in the early morning sunlight. I get the chance to listen to my current fave album of choice (The Who’s Quadrophenia) all the way through at suitably ear-splitting volume.
0930: Arrive Rydal Park. What becomes the Ambleside Show field in July is today the car park. The Pete Bland van is set up, the marshals are friendly and the fells are crystal clear – all is well with the world at this moment. It’s already on the warm side though, and still 90 minutes to the start.
1010: It’s a 15-minute walk to the start line, so no chance to return to the car. I select the 750ml water bottle and pack the race rucksack. Put a jacket on with 500ml water in one pocket and sun-tan lotion in the other (these 3 to leave at the start).
1030: Go through kit check and get my race number. Despite nearly 150 fell races under my belt I‘m still hopeless at attaching race numbers to vest with safety pins. Everything seems straightforward after that.
1040: Find the other NLFRs milling around the start area – Cailum (looking ridiculously fresh for someone who completed 65km of the Fellsman 2 weeks ago), Niamh and Joe (who’ve gone for an ultra-convenient accommodation option 50 yards away), Tom (who I’ve not met before) and the aforementioned Adam (running late) – plus some other familiar faces. The banter begins and helps us forget about what’s ahead….
Cailum, Dave, Tom, Niamh, Joe
1100: Just over 200 of us are underway and immediately hit a wall of heat. After half a mile we swing sharp left up Nab Scar and the walking begins. Thoughts go no further than whether actually completing this course is going to be possible today. One runner sits disconcertedly on a rock, already weighing things up. Eventually we hit the ridge, a bit of a breeze and the stunning view over the Grasmere fells. It’s a steady climb for the next 3 miles to the top, and the walking becomes interspersed with periods of slow jogging. Get a muesli bar and some water in. Niamh comes past whilst also holding down an earnest conversation with a Kiwi runner. Just before the summit of Fairfield I take a last slug of water and finally convince myself that completing the circuit is a goer.
1210: Reach the summit in 1hr 10 mins and make the incorrect calculation that I should therefore be back in 1:45. Overtake Niamh on the initial rocky descent, then a faster stretch over easier ground. There are numerous fellrunner-trods to the side that may or may not be quicker, some of which are taken. Further down the ground becomes more technical and I look out for the distinct left turn on the map indicating where to avoid the “Bad Step” of Sweden Crag. After the third or fourth likely spot I assume I’ve passed it. In fact, I’m grateful for shouts telling us it’s just ahead (a course recce would have been useful but in fact I’ve not been here for 20 years). After what seems like forever the descending eventually ends, we reach the car park and just the small matter of the half mile left along the track, which of course goes on forever.
1302: My 147th fell race but the first that ends under an inflatable finish line, in 2hrs 2 minutes. Am sprayed with water and handed an ice-cold can of Fanta. Find some shade, have a short period gathering myself alone and chug the Fanta in one go – it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Drag myself to the registration barn where a cup of coffee and flapjack are equally divine. Collapse in more shade and watch everyone come in and go through similar post-race recovery. In time a low-key presentation is convened, MC’d by the man with the quietest voice in fellrunning. Eventually, our group gathers at the café, the tea is so nice even in a paper cup. Of the NLFRs, Cailum’s made it look like a walk in the park, Niamh’s won yet another bottle of wine for 2nd F40, Tom seems pleased to have got round, Joe too after suffering cramps and taking a scenic diversion over Low Sweden Bridge, and Adam now resembles a lobster.
1445: A slow walk back the car, then I start poking around the adjacent beck trying to find somewhere nice to have a dip. Eventually am rewarded with a sunlit pool with a gravelly base, deep enough to get under if not actually swim in. Water temperature quite tolerable, for May. That should sort the DOMS out for the rest of the week.
1600: Back to the car park to find I’m one of the few cars left on the field. The marshal tells me he’s going home now, please shut the gate behind you and don’t let any sheep out. Much as I could stay here indefinitely I reluctantly decide to join the queue of traffic into Ambleside.
1800: There’s still a bit of the day left so rather than go straight home I make a short diversion to Airton in the Dales and have a walk along the Aire. My Gran used to live here when I was a kid and me + brothers used to run up and down the hills and poke about in the river, much like I have done today.
1900: Plans to cook a sensible dinner at home go out the window as I approach The Stocksbridge Arms fish + chip shop in Riddlesden. Fish, chips, peas and another can of pop, the perfect end to a perfect day. All built around another memorable race.
NLFR results
16th: Cailum Earley 58th: Dave Middlemas 75th (14th F): Niamh Jackson 142nd: Adam Nodwell 158th: Tom Sanders 187th: Joe Steele 217 ran (76 F) Full results
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.
Copyright Ian Wild
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?
Copyright Ian Wild
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).
Copyright Ian Wild
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!
Copyright Ian Wild
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.
Copyright The Fellsman FB
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!
Every now and then we like to check in with our injured clubmates. Injury and illness happen to most of us sooner or later, and it’s hard when a big chunk of your life is suddenly unavailable. So here is a brief update of our current crop of not-currently-runners. We miss you and wish you a swift recovery.
Ruth Dorrington
I am injured quite frequently. Some are regular overuse injuries or wear and tear (aka old age). However, I’ve inflicted a fair few ludicrous ones on myself. For example, I have given myself whiplash by running into an overhanging branch with such force I knocked myself off my feet. I have tripped over whilst running and landed on the only protruding rock in a 5-mile radius, cracking a rib, then done the exact same thing somewhere else 6 weeks later.
I’ve also had injuries where the physio/podiatrist/osteopath has called a colleague into the treatment room, saying, “Take a look at this, it’s really weird! What do you think it is?” Never very comforting. Little wonder that I am welcomed so cordially by aforementioned therapists: they must hear a giant mental ker-ching as I walk through the door.
So, have the decades of injuries given me a patient stoicism when confronted with another cycle of rest, recovery and re-hab? Definitely not! Each new injury is the very end of the world. Every person I see out running while I am injured is a stab to my heart. Every missed race is mourned with much weeping and wailing. However, when I am running, I am truly grateful for every step and celebrate every little milestone!
Dominique Lynch
Why are you on the subs bench? I’m on the subs bench after taking a tumble during a race and continuing on to the finish line (which was another 10miles!)
It’s the first time I’ve sprained my ankle or had an injury that has prevented me from running. I wouldn’t recommend it at all.
How long have you been out? I’ve been out for about nine months on and off.
What have you been doing, if anything, to keep mentally and physically fit? I’ve had lots of physio and have been religiously doing the exercises recommended to me. My ankle is still very stiff and my attempts to get back to running end in soreness for several days after.
I’ve been going on lots of walks and to Pilates classes 2-3 a week. I definitely don’t get the dopamine hit that running gives you but it feels good to be outdoors and move my body.
I think keeping mentally fit has been the hardest part of all. It’s easy to slip into thinking if I’ll ever been back on the hills again or if I do to what capacity.
What do you miss about running, if anything? Everything but mostly the people from NLFR!
Rose George
Why are you on the subs bench?
I’ve got a stress fracture in my left shin. This is weird as my left leg never usually bothers me. Right glute, right tibial tendon, right everything, but not usually left. I got a twinge in my shin the week before Auld Lang Syne, but thought nothing of it because see above about left leg. I did a ten mile moorland run on the Friday through about five different weather systems and had to take a lot of painkillers. At that point I should have rested but I wanted to run six miles dressed as Melchior with my clubmates at Auld Lang Syne, and stupidly I did. My shin hurt throughout and it hasn’t stopped hurting since.
How long have you been out?
Since January 31, 2023.
What have you been doing, if anything, to keep mentally and physically fit? I immediately stopped running and haven’t tried since. I thought it was a shin splint (muscle or tendon) but after a couple of weeks with no improvement I went to the physio who was so convinced it was a stress fracture, she only did half an appointment. She gave me some crutches and sent me to Wharfedale minor injuries, where I got an X-ray. This showed no fracture but stress fractures don’t often show on X-rays. The nurse told me that what I thought had been good low-impact stuff (walking a lot and cycling) was entirely the wrong thing to do. Great. I used crutches for a couple of weeks, but then stopped using them and noticed no difference. I’ve iced and elevated, applied comfrey poultices, taken a lot of co-codamol, and try hard to stay fit and not eat like I’m still running 30 miles a week (having just had a custard tart for breakfast). I can swim, though ideally without using my legs (the kicking motion isn’t great), I can cycle on a turbo if it’s on the flat. I’m not supposed to walk excessively, but I’m not very good at heeding that. Yoga is OK as long as I’m careful about not putting too much weight on my left leg. The thought of running is as horrific as the thought of hopping on one leg. I’m going to be out for a while yet.
I’ve dealt with the mental grief in two ways: by marshalling when I can, at park run or at the Trog. That gave me the camaraderie and race atmosphere that I really miss, even if I was only taking numbers and offering sweets. But I am just trying not to think about it because if I do, I miss it horribly. My swimming has improved massively though and I’m pretty chuffed that I can now swim a mile front crawl which I’d never done before. Marginal gains.
What do you miss about running, if anything? Everything and everyone. The head-clearing of running. The friendships. The social runs on the moors. The moors. The grousing grouse. The glee of night runs with headtorches. The pure joy of running downhill. Scraping mud off my legs with a toothbrush in the shower.
Most fell races start mid-morning, which makes organising your pre-race routine pretty straightforward: get up – have breakfast – get stuff together – travel – register – warm up – race. An early afternoon start is a bit trickier. Enjoy a long lie in? Late breakfast?/mid-morning snack?/early lunch? Do something else with the morning first?
Last Sunday’s race, Runners + Riders, started at 2pm. Waking early, I decided to get out and about rather than sit around at home, there’s already quite enough of that at this time of year. Conditions outside looked unpromising, so I packed two extra sets of clothes along with everything else (this proved to be a good decision). With the race being in Appletreewick I thought it would be a chance to have a poke around the old lead mines above Grassington, which I’d read about but not previously visited. I imagined this would be as much about exploring as covering distance so I wasn’t going to expend too much energy before the race.
I’ve never much liked Grassington – too twee and busy – but driving up onto the moor beyond you enter a very different world. I parked the car at the end of the road at Yarnbury and immediately came across the remains of an old mine, the various abandoned debris adding to the general sense of desolation of the open moor. I started loosely following a marked trail that takes you around various holes, derelict buildings and spoil heaps, in the general direction of a chimney on the skyline, which would have been more prominent if it hadn’t been for the sluicing rain and swirling mist. Arriving at the considerable remains of an old smelting mill I came across the most impressive feature, a half-mile long flue – straight as an arrow to the distant chimney – which once took all the smoke and fumes away from the mill. With the whole moor pockmarked with dubious-looking shafts and other hazards I didn’t explore too closely, but it was OK to duck under the base of the chimney, scramble in and look all the way up. At least it got me out of the by-now howling wind for a moment.
With conditions rapidly deteriorating all thoughts now turned to getting back to the relative shelter of the car. Despite having been out for under an hour I was soaked. With still four hours to go until the race I had plenty of time to effect drying out, as well as to linger over an unbeatable £3.50 piping-hot sausage sandwich and coffee offer at the Threshfield Spar. Mid-morning snack it turned out to be. It also gave me the chance to get to Appletreewick nice and early and secure a vital parking space on hard-standing (yes we did help push someone out of the mud later on). Having registered in the barn, the final stage of the drying-out procedure was completed on a faded sofa in front of a roaring log fire, taking in several draughts of healthy wood smoke.
Soon four other members of the NLFR gang arrived – Jonny, Josh, Nick and Harry – and before long we were lining up in the field ready to start (spot 4 of us in the photo below):
Photo by Andy Holden
The race is a joint affair for both runners and cyclists, on a course 4.9 miles long with 890ft of ascent, carefully designed to give all an equal chance. In that respect, much of it is relatively flat for a fell race, although you do get two proper climbs in, one about three-quarters of the way round, the other right at the start. This certainly helps spread the field out quickly:
Photo by Olga Wood
With 170 runners and 30 cyclists, there was plenty of space for everyone. Not like Bingley Harriers’ Harriers v Cyclists in November, where the ratio is more like 50-50 on a tighter course, so the risk of being cut up by the cyclists is much more part of the “fun”. Good hearing and peripheral vision helps!
Apart from those two climbs this was a pretty speedy race, particularly at the end as you zig-zag down the final field to the finish, with the cyclists whizzing past. In the end 168 ran, 31 cycled and 1 e-cycled, thus 200 in total.
But these are mere numbers, the highlight was yet to come. This race makes me about as happy to part with £10 as is possible, because that gives you the race, a donation to three local charities (including Mountain Rescue), the sofas and the fire, and as much post-race cake, sandwich and hot caffeinated beverages as can be reasonably consumed. Below a picture of a fraction of the spread from a previous year, I was too busy stuffing my face to get the camera out this time.
Many thanks as always to Ted Mason, Wharfedale Harriers and Appletreewick village for organising and hosting this event, a mid-winter classic
These are not just fell runners, these are North Leeds fell runners
UPDATE – We did a podcast! Dave Middlemas had a chat with Jonny and Ian about the weekend. You can listen here… but only after you’ve read Jonny’s account below.
by Jonathan Coney
It’s a quiet Monday evening, and I’m just settling down to watch some high quality quiz action in BBC Two’s Only Connect with a brew, waiting for the general knowledge bit of Mastermind to pass the time.
Then the phone rings, it’s Ian calling for a chat about the OMM, taking place this weekend. What’s the OMM I hear you ask? Well it’s a mountain marathon run in pairs: two days of being in the mountains carrying all your kit for those two days, and camping in between. There are a range of courses: line courses – more like a fell race – where you navigate point to point along the way but the things you visit are probably not a nice summit or obvious feature; and score courses, where you have a time limit to get from the start to the day’s finish, and you visit controls to gain points along the way. This year the OMM was in North Wales, based in the area around Bethesda in Eryri (the region formerly known as Snowdonia).
I’d heard of the OMM and I knew this was Ian’s game: 36 hours or so of running/walking/hobbling/crawling/crying around some mountains in late October. A few mates had done the OMM about five years ago and the stories of shivering in a tent in the snow wearing socks as gloves was enough to put me off. I’d always sort of said I’d give a mountain marathon a go one day – maybe the Saunders mountain marathon in the summer to ease me in, with beer and things at the halfway camp – but not straight to the OMM.
While Ian was (very kindly) giving me a lift to Withins Skyline a fortnight or so before, apparently I’d been less dismissive of the idea of the OMM than everyone else Ian had asked, which meant I was perfect fodder for a weekend’s antics in North Wales. Someone had dropped out, Ian had first dibs on a team place until that night, and he just wanted to be there. Now Ian was being very flattering about my abilities and offering his kit services (we’d all heard about Ian’s kit room but here was a chance to actually see and use it), and maybe by going with an experienced OMM-er I’d avoid some of the pitfalls my mates had experienced a few years back. And I mean, it’s not impossible right? Ian’s being very nice about me, and saying he doesn’t mind at all if I slow him down. And I don’t run well in hot weather, so maybe the OMM is right for me: there is significantly less chance of a drought and a heatwave in October than in July! That place going spare was for the long score, we might as well keep things simple and not change it, fine? That’s 7 hours on Saturday and 6 hours on Sunday, by the way.
16 minutes till Only Connect starts and I message back.
“Yeah go on then I’m in”
Then regret it a bit.
But I’m committed now.
We meet at Ian’s kit room on Wednesday for a chat about the plan and kit. That plan is to go lightweight. My 25-litre rucksack will do – right, fine?! If you’re sure? That removable backrest – too heavy – bubblewrap will do unless we fancy the soft option of a roll mat. Spare socks are unnecessary as your feet get wet within seconds when you put on your shoes on day 2. Food? It’s an eating competition apparently so I head to Aldi (other supermarkets are available) on the way home from Ian’s to buy *nice things*. Ian would sort the tent and overnight food and he’d come and pick me up on Friday.
Friday evening in Bethesda rolls around a bit too quickly for my liking. I’m a bit of a panicker about big things, and I was treating this as an adventure in my mind which seemed to keep the nerves at bay. We register and pick up our dibber and tracker, and settle down at the event centre for a kip before things start proper the next morning.
Day One
Our start is between 9 and 9:15 am, so we eat and faff a bit in the morning. Extra unnecessary food is left in the van and we weigh our bags one final time, Ian has 4.5 kg (after we remember that we really ought to take the poles for the tent) and mine is 4.7 kg (what can I say, I really wanted to bring jelly babies). We wander the kilometre or so to the start and I wish I had gone to the loo again before leaving but I’m here now. There are lots of folk with more kit and bigger, more bulging rucksacks than the ones we are carrying. Maps are thrust in our hands, Ian dibs in and sets off at pace down a track towards the first control. Whoops what have I let myself in for: seven hours of this and then tomorrow too?
The next hours pass as a bit of a blur, I’m definitely a passenger but try to keep tabs on the map. Ian’s navigating and route planning is impressive to watch, and he’s really supportive of me being slow as we plunge (well he plunges, I stagger) down hills and suffer up steep climbs of the Carneddau. And contouring. Grim, sad, ankle-straining contouring. We bump into Cat, and we have a chat. Cat’s doing the long score too, though perhaps at a more pleasant pace than Ian and me.
Four hours have gone and we find ourselves at the A5 (ed: that’s a motorway not a control point). Our overnight campsite spot is west of here near Ogwen Cottage, a couple of miles or so of flat running away. But instead we cross the A5 and head south up towards the edge of the Glyderau. I suffer a lot here, Ian kindly shares the load and I get a break from carrying kit. This stuff is hard work and we climb into the mist. It starts raining a bit, after we have been lucky with the weather all morning. With an hour to go Ian proposes what I think is a madcap plan to fly down into some cwms (ed: for non-Welsh speakers or Welsh mountain veterans: a cwm is a steep-sided hollow) underneath Y Garn to pick up some high scoring controls and, despite my initial unease, I agree and we gain some more points. In hindsight my proposal of descending via Devil’s Kitchen would have been a very sad affair.
Time was getting tight as we approached the final couple of controls for the day. Our seven hour deadline passes. Our hard-earned points gradually ebb away. Ian loses a fight with some barbed wire. We bag the last control, and descend down to the camp spot. Bit of a mad rush in and we’re only seven minutes late in (a deduction of 14 points; controls are worth between 10 and 50 points each) and learn that we’re currently in first place, which was a bit of a surprise, especially as I had been apologising to Ian for being so slow all day. This later becomes second, still not bad. Apparently running well on day 1 is a good thing as high-scoring teams get an earlier start the next day, so you spend less time being sad at the overnight campsite.
Copyright Tom McNally
So after Ian gets patched up from his run-in with the barbed wire, he bumps into some of his mates and we go and pitch our tent nearby them in the bustling field. There’s rain forecast from 6pm pretty much all night, due to stop at some point in the morning, and I’m keen to be as snug as I can be by the time it starts. Dinner and hot chocolate (luxury) gets cooked and devoured, and we admire the fun sheet on the back of the map complete with crossword, wordsearch and some Welsh language practice.
Copyright OMM
Day Two
6am GMT, as just to add to the brain-strain the clocks went back on the Saturday night, and a piper starts up along with a procession around the campsite. Fortunately the rain has stopped. We eat some porridge and get packed up. Our start is at 7:03 am, which means I only have to survive until about 1pm when it will all be over!
Things start well but I get gradually more and more done in, and the grand compromise plan of *one last hill* is accepted: this consists of a gradual flowy descent back to Bethesda in about two hours time, mopping up points along the way. Despite my slowness on the last big climb, we make up some lost time on teams who had overtaken us, through serendipitous helpful trods and Ian’s bob-on bearings. We nab an extra control and make it home with about ten minutes to spare of our six hours.
Copyright Tom McNally
So, we survived. We lost some places from Saturday’s 2nd place to end up in 7th overall. Which was pretty good. I hunched over my lamb kofta and a very sugary cup of tea.
Thank you very much Ian, for having me along and getting me through!
Would I do a mountain marathon again? Maybe. We were very lucky with the weather and I was very lucky to have a teammate who knew the ropes, had quality kit and knowledge and could get me through when I was suffering.
I’d say that was probably my most challenging weekend’s running ever, or at least in a very long time.
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to run up Britain’s highest mountain? To ascend effortlessly into the clouds then glide back down, soaring on a wave of support and euphoria? If so, stop reading this and go listen to Finlay Wild’s podcast. He won it again this year, for the 12th time in a row.
For us mere mortals, however, the Ben Nevis race is one of the classic fell races of the year (or hill races, as they’re called north of the border). Simple in its conception, merciless in its execution, the race is a (roughly) 2-hour slog: go up 4,400ft. to the top, go back down 4,400ft. the same way. Easy, right?
I’d not really considered doing the race before and had heard it was hard to get a place, but I’ve Will Hall to thank for both. Back in March this year he rang me urgently, demanding to know which category A races I’d done. I was skiing so didn’t answer the phone. Fortunately, our race captain Johnny did, and provided the info on my behalf (thanks Johnny, you do look after me). Next time I checked my phone, a rather surprising email was waiting, informing me that “your entry to the Ben Nevis race pre-selection has been received.” A few weeks later I got the email I’d been simultaneously awaiting and dreading – “your entry to the Ben Nevis race 2023 is confirmed”. It’s been on the calendar since, written simply as two ominous words.
“The Ben.”
Naturally, I promptly forgot all about it, lost in the business of house buying, holidays and general work and life grind. It was only when trying to sort a completion date, and flicking over to September, that I saw the two words again. I messaged my brother for training tips. “Just get as much climb in as you can” was his advice, so I went out and did some reps of the Meanwood ridge for good measure. Needless to say, with race day approaching, I was feeling a little unprepared. Two days before the race though, just getting there looked unlikely. A positive COVID test from Will’s girlfriend and upcoming train strikes had combined to thwart my travel arrangements. But on Friday morning, the day before the race, there was good news: a negative test from Maddie, and some unlikely few trains running from York to Edinburgh. I drove over (no trains were running from Leeds to York), winced as I paid for weekend parking, and got on the train up North. The Ben was back on.
Will and I left Edinburgh Saturday morning in his van, making good time up the A82, through stunning Glencoe, and I felt that familiar crackle of pure excitement that arriving in the Highlands gives me. We arrived in Fort William at around 11:30, a full 2 and a half hours before the start, the earliest I’ve ever been! Fortunately, I was with Yorkshire’s chattiest man and around the registration area, we stopped every two minutes to chat with someone else that Will knew (runners from clubs, friends from school, a man he’d met earlier in a toilet in Tyndrum). Meanwhile, I spied a familiar face and svelte frame pinning a number to a yellow and green vest. Yes rather sneakily my brother Tom ‑- now living in Scotland and managing the Ratagan youth hostel but still running for Keswick AC — had also entered. Mum and Dad had even promised to come and watch too, although neither Tom nor I would be the first Day to run it: Uncle Richard had run a blistering 1:44 back in ‘87, and followed it up by running the races in 88, 89 & 90 (it seems he’d stopped after Tom was born).
Wait, isn’t Will a Bogtrotter now? oh aye, there he is in the wrong vest.
Registration included a generous haul, comprising a t-shirt, programme, small bottle of whisky and a voucher for a free post-run massage. It also contained a wristband – to be handed in at the top of the Ben – and a red card, to allow access into the starters’ paddock. It all seemed a little convoluted, but I can only assume some previous skullduggery had necessitated it.
At 2pm sharp, we were marched around the football pitch by the local pipers, then with the bang of the starter’s gun we were off, out on the [98th] Ben Nevis Hill Race. We left the football field and turned on to the road, which was having the desired effect of thinning us out before the climb began in earnest. Up ahead Finlay Wild was already well ahead and heading further out of sight. I glimpsed the yellow and green of Tom up in the lead pack and settled into my own race. It was hot. I began rueing the measly 300ml of water I had taken in my bumbag. A group of lads sitting on the grass beside the road had it right, cheering on with beers and cider. It was – as they say up here – “Taps aff” weather.
Off the road, we turned up onto the steps to begin contouring around the side of Meall an t-Suidhe. At seemingly random points, various runners dove into the braken, up trods and shortcuts to cut off the zig-zags. Crossing a small wooden bridge, we joined the main path from the youth hostel and began the long series of flagstone steps. Somehow, I managed to fall going up these, my Mudclaws slipping on the smooth rock, to a wry comment of “Steady on, save all that for the way back” from a watching spectator. The course has been changed this year, so that runners are not allowed to cut across adjacent to the Red Burn, and instead must continue on a long out and back up the path to the Lochan, then staying on until crossing the burn again. Only then can runners start hacking straight up. I did as told and followed the path, dipped my cap in the burn as I crossed it to cool my hot head, then turned upwards onto the scree.
Pic by Lorne McFarlane (and paid for)
Off the path, I picked my way straight up, with Tom Stapelton of Wharfedale, and an Ilkley Harriers runner beside me, a Yorkshire-based trio among the mass of white and blue local Lochaber runners. “Go on North Leeds!” I heard to my right. “Oh, hello Zoe!” I replied, seeing former black and blue Zoe Barber up above, out in support of her Glasgow-based club Shettleston Harriers. Her boyfriend was up above, battling out for an impressive 3rd, but she was kind enough to remark to me “you’re looking strong!”. I actually felt it too and began pressing on a bit, sticking to the larger rocks where grip was better, rather than the scree path, hopping from rock to rock.
The climb seemed to go on forever, but eventually, the gradient eased, which I knew meant we had about 150m more climb to go – just an Otley Chevin then (I spend a lot of my running calculating things in units of Otley Chevins, or OCs. Some handy conversions: Simon’s Seat: 3 OCs, Scafell Pike: 6 OCs, Ben Nevis: 9 OCs). We were back on the tourist route now and into the clouds, sharing the path with the ordinary walkers, who wore rain macs, over-trousers and weary expressions, the novelty of being overtaken by a sweaty, grizzled runner in vest and short shorts having clearly already worn off. A few were wearing matching t-shirts to commemorate the finishes of personal challenges and possibly felt slightly outshone by the gazelle-like progress of (some of) the runners. Some tourists stepped aside, others didn’t. I just carried on, trying to be polite and managing a “thanks” when I had the spare air.
It was around here, approaching the top, that I started to feel the first pricks of cramp in my leg. Fearing the worst, I gulped my second and final gel. At the summit, I handed in my wristband, grabbed some jelly babies that were on offer, took a deep breath, and prepared for the descent.
Pic by Lorne McFarlane (and paid for)
It’s a cliché about the Ben that the summit is only the half-way point, but one that I still refuse to learn. Quite soon into the descent, I was feeling the effects of my earlier efforts whilst “looking strong”. Actually, the word that flashed through my head begins with f and rhymes with stuck, but I had little choice but to carry on. Unfortunately though, you can’t blag a 4,400 ft. descent and despite my rigorous Meanwood ridge hill reps I just didn’t have the legs.
Down the initial steady part I was OK, if a little slow, and even on the steep, gnarly scree slopes that followed I didn’t have time to think about my legs for fear of stacking it. However once we turned onto the flagstones of the tourist path by the burn, I knew the remainder of the race would be all about survival.
I tried to accelerate into a run, but immediately felt a spasm of cramp in my calf. Counter-balancing this, my groin then cramped. I couldn’t run anymore, instead resorting to a sort of controlled hobble, gently trying to edge faster while keeping the cramp at bay. After the lochan, on the steeper stone steps, I nudged on too far, cramping hard on my right calf, and nearly falling off the side of the steps in the process. I collapsed and had to be given a humiliating cramp-and-calf stretch on the side of the hill by a nearby marshal. I sipped some water he gave me, then hobbled the rest of the race, variously overtaken by faster finishers. Hitting the road again at the end was no respite – in fact worse – and unfortunately here I saw Zoe again, who gave a sympathetic laugh, and also my parents, who clapped spiritedly. The long lap of the football field seemed to go on forever. At the end, I tried to “sprint” past a runner I’d been reeling in, cramped again, was re-overtaken by him, and all but crawled over the line. It was pretty ignominious.
I lay on the ground cramping for a good 10 minutes. Then eventually, after a river swim and a free sports massage, recovered enough to head back to Will’s van. We convened later in Fort William with his HBT mates and the Shettleston Harriers at the Black Isle Brewery for pizza and beers. Then decamped to the Nevis Centre to watch the awards ceremony (and have another beer). Things get a little hazy after that. We headed back to town to a pub, where a series of random connections occurred. The masseuse who’d sorted my calves was out on the town, so too was Zoe’s boyfriend Daniel, who’d come third. I’m good friends with two of her exes, so that was a slightly odd moment when asked how I knew Zoe. Another chap was cycling over to Skye to meet a mutual friend of Will’s, another turned out to be Alex Sharp’s best man. The strangest connection of them all though was being recognised at the urinals and asked “did you cycle to Vladivostok?” by a guy called Max who’d driven there in a Nissan Micra. We’d eaten at the same cafe in Vladivostok and got to know the owner. His reg plate is on the cafe wall, my cycling jersey is beside it. Small world.
About to start the Double-Day press conference (plus some Wharfie)
Somehow, later I found myself in Roobarb, Fort William’s best (and only?) nightclub. Finlay Wild was there. So too were the Howgill Harriers boys, drinking beer out of the second place cup, with the shield for first team being passed from waist to waist like a boxer’s belt. I just wore my finisher’s medal. In the stumble along the high street I’d lost Will. Later I saw a message from him on my phone:
“What’s the craic?”
“Good for a shit club, where are you?”
“I had an amazing poo in Spoons then came to the van”
Sometimes it’s the little things in life.
A few hours later I joined him and collapsed into his van. The next morning we recovered with a Spoons breakfast, with the rain pouring down outside. My brother joined us for a coffee there too, having come back to pick up his car. He looked worse than me. At least I have one thing I’m better than him at. We parted ways soon after with a hug, then drove back down to Edinburgh, stopping to dip heavy legs in the cool waters of Loch Earn.
I left Will to go to a music festival his girlfriend’s brother was playing at and boarded the train home. Out of the highlands, the sun shone and I trundled down the east coast mainline on the train, admiring the blue waters around Bamburgh castle. I alternately napped, then watched the BBC footage of the Proms which I’d sung in the bank holiday Monday before (Rose – what a shameless plug, you can take that out if you want. Ed: nope). Even better, my car was still there in York, without a parking ticket. It had been a whirlwind 48 hour trip up and down the country and up and down Britain’s highest mountain. The Ben: what a race. Sign me up for next year’s.
Firstly, thank you to all of you who wished me well for this race in the long build-up and, sent messages whilst it was happening, it really helped me pull through. Fair warning in advance, this is a relatively long post…but it was a relatively long race, so I hope you’ll forgive me.
It’s 2.30 am, on the morning of the fifth day of ‘the world’s toughest mountain race’, and I’m lying on the floor of a Portaloo, the world still spinning, having been violently sick for the second time, knowing I only have a couple of hours before I need to be readying myself for the hardest day of the week.After some deep long breaths, I reach for the Portaloo handle and haul myself up. “F**k this, you’ve come too far and given too much to this bloody race to have it end on the floor of a toilet.”
Overview
Billed as the world’s toughest mountain race, the Dragonsback Race (DBR) is a six-day, multi-stage race across the mountainous spine of Wales. It starts at Conwy Castle in the north and finishes at Cardiff Castle in the capital. You can read about the inaugural race and how it’s grown to what it is today here.
I talked a little about this in my recap of volunteering back in 2021. Jess often asked me what my ‘”why” was in the build-up, and I’m not sure I ever managed to convince her with my answer. To be honest, I think it’s a multitude of reasons: to test myself against a truly tough challenge that I could never be sure of completing, and the chance to discover Wales and its epic mountains were probably my two big driving reasons.
“to prepare for this race, it’s more important to run slower for longer, rather than running hard for three hours on a mountain. It’s the time on your feet that pays off. It’s about building slowly, putting the miles in, and building a deeper strength in your muscles.”
The whippersnappers average around eight or nine hours to complete each day. For me, this was all about survival, getting through each day, and prepping my body to give myself a chance.
For me, preparation needed to comprise a lot of time on feet, so as many recces of the course as I could fit in, and multi-day preparation (both in terms of physicality and admin preparation). I signed up for two other races in the year which I thought would help me prepare for the DBR: the Great Lakeland 3 Day (GL3D) in April and the Helvellyn Sky Ultra in July. GL3D proved to be a double-edged sword. It gave me invaluable insight into long back-to-back days out, and the nutrition required to fuel them, but left me with tendonitis around my right knee, to which I lost around eight weeks of training, and meant I was unable to run the Helvellyn race.
I also decided to enlist a coach to help me prepare for the year. I’d been sceptical about using a coach before this, as I thought the main benefit of coaching was for people lacking motivation, and that wasn’t an issue with me. However, having picked up an(other) injury in January, I reached out to Jack Scott to help me manage the training load with specificity for the race. I’d now wholeheartedly recommend a running coach, and certainly Jack: the planning, variety of training, communication, and advice throughout help take a significant weight off your shoulders.
Kit & Support
The DBR isn’t a self-supported race. There is a well-oiled machine run by Ourea Events that transports each day’s camp along the route, providing you with an eight-person tent to sleep in (two per pod), catering for breakfast and dinner, as well as two support points along the day’s route. They will also transport your main bag (60L dry bag which can weigh no more than 15kg) and a day bag (7L weighing no more than 2.5kg). The support points will provide you with water and you will have access to your day bag at one of them, but you are expected to be self-sufficient whilst you’re out on the hills.
The rules are also very clear that you aren’t allowed any external support on the course – bar cheering – so you couldn’t, for instance, have friends or family stationed with water or food out on the mountains. I’m very lucky to have had my long-suffering partner Jess, and her mum Lucy, out on the course all week cheering on as well as other friends en route.
Day One| Conwy Castle to Nant Gwynant, 49km (30.5 miles) | 3800m (12,467ft))
It’s an early start, the 4 a.m. alarm goes off and it’s time to head over to the castle for the 6 a.m. start. It’s dark but not cold. The weather for the day, and the week, looks very hot. I’m pretty good at handling the heat, but admittedly would have preferred it to be around the 15 degrees mark. Instead today is forecasted to top out around 27 degrees. The castle start is fantastic with a Welsh male-voice choir send-off and a stunning sunrise as we top the first peak.
The pace is slow and comfortable, largely dictated by the single track that doesn’t allow for much overtaking until you hit the Carneddau. Once there, the sun is out and the heat is very much noticeable. I try to move through the gears, but realise my heart rate is spiking each time I do. I decided to accept today is going to have to be slower than I’d thought, but I’m confident I’ll be well within the cut-offs and only have the potential to do myself damage otherwise.
As we approach Pen Yr Ole Wen and the first support point at Llyn Ogwen, I take satisfaction in seeing most runners needlessly following the recommended route over Carnedd Daffyd and shout to my friend Trelawny to follow me and contour around it. It saves us time and elevation and gives us a boost as we claim a fair few places.
I consider the descent of Pen Yr Ole Wen, followed by its road section and subsequent climb up Tryfan and Glyder Fawr, to be the hardest quick combination of the entire race. It’s so easy to get carried away on the descent and leave nothing in your legs without realising it until you hit the big climb. I’d recce’d it several times and each time come away with thinking “that’s really going to hurt”. And hurt it did. The sun was unrelenting as we made our way up the west face of Tryfan. I’d decided to ignore the arbitrary time I had in my head for how long it should take and instead make sure to sit down and drink any time I felt my heart rate go too high. In hindsight, though the climb took me 20 minutes longer than I would have liked, given the number of runners I caught in the latter third as well as the number of dropouts that occurred between there and the next support point, this was the best decision I made all race. I make the top of Tryfan wondering if this is finally the time I get the line right coming off it (it isn’t) and after a convoluted scramble down, I’m greeted by the lovely sight of Jess and Lucy who climbed up earlier knowing this would be the crux of the day for me.
Buoyed from seeing them, I top out Glyder Fawr and try to get the legs moving again. It feels like it’s been a while since I’ve been up here, and it shows as I find myself debating the right lines. It’s a long steep descent down to Pen Y Pass and the water point and I arrive to see runners lined up against a wall on the side of the road trying to cool down in the shade. It’s boiling by this point, the heat radiating back off the tarmac, and you can see people are starting to wobble. I decide to pop into the café and grab a drink and ice lolly to bring my temperature down, chuckling at the runner in front of me in the queue, who’s growing ever more exasperated at the lack of urgency from the staff on the till. He must have been keen to get back out there and work on his tan.
I start the approach to Crib Goch feeling good, the fizzy drink has worked wonders and I’m feeling strong. Plus, this is the part of the route I’ve looked forward to most, and as we top out and start running along the knife-edge ridge, I can’t help but feel a slight sense of sadness that it’s about to end.
The infamous Crib Goch ridge en route to Yr Wydffa
Coming off Crib Goch I see Kelly, who’s been at a similar pace all day, debating whether it’s possible to contour around Carnedd Ugain. The summit checkpoint from previous races has been moved to where the Pyg Track tops out before Yr Wydffa allowing for a nifty line around. I know it’s doable, having done it before out of curiosity, and shout to ask the marshal overseeing those scrambling up whether many have done it. He replies only 10 so far, which brings a smile to my face, and I nod ahead to Kelly that I’m happy to lead on. We contour round and join the Pyg Track having saved at least 15 minutes and begin the short ascent to the highest point of Wales. By now the heat is finally starting to relent, which I’m very grateful for, but fatigue is setting in. Looking at a map from this stage, you’d think it’s a fairly easy finish from here, but I know from recces this last part of the horseshoe is technical and slow.
I arrive at camp a little after 8 pm, and I’m shown to my tent to meet my fellow tent-mates for the first time. The first two I meet have already DNF’d having been timed out at Pen Y Pass and Ogwen. They aren’t in the best of moods, and I consequently keep the conversation short to avoid dampening my mood. There are a lot of forlorn looks around the camp that evening and on entering the mess tent, I don’t instantly recognise anyone, so decide to plop myself on a bean bag and look at the screen showing the live tracking and results for the day. The results show a significant chunk of the field hasn’t made it through the heat and brutality of the first day. It’s similar weather and dropout rate to when I volunteered, so this doesn’t come as a huge shock, and if anything, I use it as fuel for encouragement that I’m still in the game. I head back to my tent to meet more of my tent-mates who’ve also DNF’d, and climb into my pod where I see my bunkmate for the week – Greg – has now arrived, but is passed out cold.
Day Two | Nant Gwynant to Dolgellau 59km (36.5 miles) | 3400m (11,155ft)
I’m not a great sleeper at the best of times and my 4 a.m. alarm goes off in what feels like the blink of an eye. My watch makes me go through the routine of telling me how poorly I’ve slept and how I shouldn’t train for 60 hours, particularly since I’ve only had about three hours of sleep.
No doubt running on adrenaline, I’m surprised to feel no hint of tiredness. I’m alert, focused, and my legs don’t feel too bad. I’ve recce’d this day recently and feel like I know it well. I also know the cut-offs are as honest as they come for the week, and I plan to attack the front half to make sure I comfortably make the second cut-off at Cwm Bychan. I pack away and ready my kit for the day and take in as much breakfast as I can before handing over my bags and completing the kit check.
The day starts with a road section, largely downhill, which I use to get the legs into a rhythm. Just before we depart the tarmac I’m greeted by the unexpected sight of Jess and Lucy cheering in their dry robes. The nice surprise lifts my spirits, but I keep the greeting short and sweet as I’m in a rhythm and know I need to get moving. Beginning the long approach to Cnicht, I’m climbing well, and catching runners, trying to make hay before the sun shines.
Despite what feels like good progress, I still only split Cnicht three minutes ahead of the guide time to make cut-offs. Iain, a top lad who’s previously completed the Cape Wrath Ultra, notes this out loud. I don’t panic as I knew from recces that this was likely to be the case and that it would be the same for the next couple of tops, but I also knew that that time could be made back on the descent into Maentwrog. The two climbs (Moelwyn Mawr and Bach) are hard work, the wind is so strong it’s harder to move forwards rather than sideways, but I keep myself from complaining as it’s the only thing keeping my body temperature cool.
I descend into Maentwrog with Iain, noting the temperature spiking as we hit the afternoon and become shrouded in ferns that stifle any breeze. Noting how well Iain is moving, I make a point of latching on to him for as long as I can. We pass Russell Bentley who is out cheering just before the support point which is another welcome surprise.
Making a point of not taking too long at the support point, I quickly fill up my water and get a waffle down me before setting off with Iain. We make good headway along the next section and arrive at the midway cut-off with plenty of time to spare. The organisers have allowed 30 minutes grace at this cut-off to allow competitors to cool down (with the day’s final cut-off subsequently extended to 10.30 pm). I’m not too hot and moving well but force myself to take 20 minutes before making the climb up Rhinog Fawr. I know Jess and Lucy are waiting at the top – Jess and I got engaged there in April and despite it being remote and tricky to get to she’s keen to show her mum – and the thought keeps me honest while ascending in the heat. I pause at the top for a quick natter and drink then crack on with the remainder of the Rhinogydd.
A quick natter with Jess on top of Rhinog Fawr
I thoroughly recommend the Rhynogydd for those who like the path less travelled. They’re remote, and wild, with stunning vistas on a clear day. I force myself to take 10 minutes to sort my stomach out on the climb up Rhinog Fach, which means saying farewell to Iain for the day as he motors onwards. I make the time back taking a line off the recommended route before the final top though. A runner smirks as I re-join the path asking if I’ve made a nav error. I bite my tongue to keep from saying how his definition of a nav error and mine clearly differ, but can’t resist a little poke back.
“No, I just didn’t see the sense in adding in that pointless climb.” The smile quickly left his face. “Well, good if you know it I guess.” “Indeed,” I reply, making no effort to hide the smirk now on mine.
The steep descent off Diffwys is harsh on the quads, and the long road/cycle path section to camp compounds the damage, but I make it back in relatively good time, still smiling that I’m in the race.
Day Three| Dolgellau to Ceredigion, 70km (43.5 miles) | 3400m (11,155ft)
Day three is the longest and is viewed by many as the crux. Statistically, those who finish day three are more likely than not to finish the entire race. I meet Iain on the climb and stick with him as we climb up Cadair Idris to be presented with a stunning vista.
The early climb up Cadair Idris before the heat kicked in.
There’s another 30 minutes grace today because of the heat which is forecasted to be worse than yesterday with next to no wind. I can certainly feel it as we hit the first support point and take the time to fill up all my water reserves and get as much down me as I can. The climb to the next checkpoint is long and I’m shocked to realise I’ve lost nearly 80 minutes of the buffer I’d built up. I had to move slowly in the heat, but I certainly couldn’t have pushed any harder. I get some food down and give the next section some oomph, still trying to reconcile in my head where the time had gone.
The last checkpoint before the support point at Machynlleth is a steep out and back. Before the sight of it can dampen my spirits, my mate Dave emerges from behind a wall for a brief chat to wish me well. He’d let me know the points he’d be stationed at in the week, based on what he thought would be low morale points, and he couldn’t have placed himself any better. The quick chat gives me enough boost to chip away and get the out and back done before the long-track descent to Machynlleth. The road into the town drags on with the heat baking down, as I turn a corner and spot Jess and Lucy I realise, with my buff wrapped around my hat and neck and my body glistening with sweat, that I must look more akin to a Marathon Des Sables runner than one racing in Wales.
I nip into Greggs and in my calorie-deficit state, ambitiously decide to buy three sausage rolls. I wolf two down at the support point, along with a couple of bottles of fizzy drink, and spend a little time giving my feet some TLC. I start the climb out of the support point and immediately feel sluggish. This was generally the case after leaving support points as I would fill all my water reserves, top up on food, and inevitably leave with my pack 3-4kg or so heavier than when I’d arrived. This, combined with the heat of the day, lack of wind, and my overindulgence in food and water means I hit a wall fast and hard.
The sun’s still baking down, and I have to stop at the top of the penultimate climb to recoup. I chew a Rennie down hoping it’ll help with the feeling of nausea, but it doesn’t do the trick, and my subsequent progress is slow. As I approach Pumlumon Fawr, I see a group of four runners ahead and try, and fail, to close the gap. We’re tussock-bashing at this point and it’s hard work. I spy one of the runners drop down into the valley towards to the river and assume she’s gone to fill up or cool down. However, a few minutes later, I see she’s crested the other side of the valley and evidently found a much more runnable path. I’m in a grump at this point and stubbornly decide to keep up with my tussock bashing, assuming it can’t go on much longer. It does, and watching the runner motor away on the other side only serves to fuel my negative mindset.
There’s a support rescue van stationed at the bottom of the Pumlumon Fawr, and I see the runner ahead, who’s not been moving well, approach it. His body language isn’t right and after chatting with the marshal, he bursts into tears and slumps down, before proceeding into the van. Admittedly I’m shocked, wondering how bad a state he must be in to call it a day at the final climb before the end of day three with just over three miles to go. With that in mind, I put my head down and get to work. The climb is relatively kind, but my mood is still low, partly also due to knowing this will be the first day I finish after sunset, which means less time for camp admin.
Before I’d started on Monday, a friend from work had texted “When you enter the pain cave, grab a shovel and enjoy”. It’s this that comes to mind now, and I mutter the phrase “keep digging” over and over to the rhythm of my poles. Just before I reach the top, I realise there’s a stunning sunset behind me and immediately my mood is lifted. I get the legs moving again and catch the two runners in front. It’s dusk now and they both get their head torches out. I’m still moving well and stubbornly neglect stopping to do the same, daft I know, but the light means it’s manageable and it’s relatively easy underfoot so I make do with the torch on my watch for the last kilometre. I hit the road just before the finish to see the welcome sight of Jess and Lucy still smiling and full of encouragement.
“Is that the hardest bit done?’”we all start to wonder.
Day Four | Through the Elan Valley, 69km (43 miles) | 2300m (7,546ft)
I’ve seen day four referred to as a “rest day” in relative terms. That is, relative to the days before it and the day ahead of it. After speaking to Ellie, who I volunteered with back in 2021 and who is back volunteering again this year having completed the race last year, I decided to take her advice and switch to some comfier trail shoes for the day, particularly given the stretches of road. I catch up with Kelly, who I ran much of day one with, and admit it’s good to see her carrying on as she’d nearly decided to pack it in at dinner last night.
The day starts with a couple of decent climbs and descents through woodland and dirt track before we hit the first stretch of road. Everyone relishes the chance to get their legs moving properly, particularly along the stretches of downhill. After that, it’s four miles of hard tussock work before we hit the road again. I’m buoyed by the sight of Dave, who says I look in good nick, and put in a burst to close the gap on the group who’d carried on whilst I’d stopped to chat. Feeling like I’m moving well, reinforced by said gap closing, I’m slightly irritated to hear the footfall of another runner behind me who overtakes with ease. Seeing the familiar red pack and green top, the feeling of irritation instantly disappears, as I realise it’s Hugh Chatfield (the race leader) and give him a shout of encouragement which he returns in kind. The speed and work ethic each of the podium runners put in in the heat all week was mind-blowing.
Happy that the legs are still moving and to be rid of tussocks.
After bagging the next couple of peaks, there’s a long downhill stretch into the support point in Elan Village. I arrive shortly after Kelly and take a pew next to her. This is the first day I’ve noticed my feet starting to ache, and given we’re only 20 miles or so in, I make a point of giving them some TLC with the massage ball from my support bag. My mouth has also been giving me grief all morning, with the sensation of feeling burnt and dry, which I assume is a result of excessive sugar intake over the last three days. Much to Kelly’s amusement, I crack out a toothbrush and try seeing if I can brush away the sensation but to no avail.
As is the theme of the week, the big climb out of the support point is hard in the heat. The burnt sensation in my mouth is putting me in a bad mood and I try brushing my teeth again in hope more than expectation. The sensation leaves me not wanting anything sweet, including my Tailwind which is most of the liquid I’ve got on me. Thankfully I’m well hydrated, but also conscious that there aren’t any water sources until the next support point. I’m growing more and more frustrated as I chug away at the long climb, then realise Jess and Lucy have planned to be at the top.
Seeing them is a welcome boost, and I offload some of my grumblings to Jess, who as usual tries her best to spin things positively. Sometimes though, all you need is a whine and a moan, and having done so and waved goodbye, I descend well and end up catching both Kelly and shortly after Pete, whom I’d met on day one and had a good natter with the night before. We all express a reluctance to push on the remaining section, which is mostly road, given we’re not pressed for time and the daunting prospect of day five looming large, and proceed to quick march back to camp. I dig out the last Greggs sausage roll from the day before, which I’d forgotten I’d stashed at the bottom of my pack, and after a moment’s hesitation decide to wolf it down to get me through the last few miles.
Back at camp Kelly and Pete kindly share their painkillers (the high-strength stuff) and talc powder respectively. My feet are hurting a lot, and both are much appreciated. At dinner I make the point of taking in as much lasagne and garlic bread as the kind lady at catering can offer. I overeat if anything and feel a little uncomfortable, but given the distance completed and what lies ahead, that can be no bad thing…right?
Day Five | Into the Bannau Brycheiniog National Park, 70km (43.5 miles) | 3200m (10,499ft)
I wake up sharply and instantly know something isn’t right. I’ve had night sweats most nights, but this feels worse. I put aside my sleeping bag and flip 180 degrees so I’m nearer the cool air of the tent door, which helps a little, but have a nagging feeling of what’s about to happen (I can’t shake the memory of that day-old sausage roll). My stomach churns and I take a big breath, make peace with what’s about to come, and stumble outside towards the toilets. Despite this being the first time our tent has been positioned at the front of the row all week, and consequently nearest the toilet, I don’t make it in time before I keel over and expel a few helpings of lasagne. Following what I can only describe as a minor exorcism in a Portaloo, I make my way back to the tent, drag my sleeping mat and bag into the communal area, and pitch up, waiting for the inevitable second wave of nausea to hit. I glance at my watch and note it’s 1 a.m., still a few more hours until I’m meant to be up.
I’ve forgotten to fish my jacket out of the tent pod and am reluctant to disturb my tent mate a second time, so make do with my day pack as a headrest. I feel every groove and edge of the shoes stored inside, and that combined with condensation in the tent that proceeds to drip on my head each time I threaten to nod off, means I achieve next to no sleep before I need to stumble back to the Portaloos again to be sick.
Returning to the tent, I send a quick text to Jess and Dave to let them know the night isn’t going well and promise to update them at 6 a.m. As my usual wake-up time draws nearer, I pull out the map to evaluate the day ahead and try to figure out how I can get it done. My main concern is I’ve lost all the calories I’d tried to get in last night, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep anything down. I groan inside as I see the first support point of the day isn’t until 39km.
My attention turns to Llandovery, eight or so miles in, and the option of the bakery stop that offers, and tell myself to focus on getting there. I go through the motions of readying my kit and packing for the day, before heading to the medic tent in the hope of getting some anti-sickness tablets. The queue to see a medic is long, with many runners requesting help with taping their feet. I’m conscious of time, as I need to be out by 6 am to have a chance at today, and by some miracle, I notice my appetite start to perk up. Deciding to do away with speaking to a medic, I head to the catering tent and after some kind words of advice from Nicola, who completed the race last year, take her advice in opting for some cereal and a bread roll.
These go down well, and before I know it, I’m standing at the start line with Kelly and Pete. We’re told there will be two 30-minute grace periods today with the temperatures topping out at 30 degrees with little wind. I send Jess and Dave a quick text to say “I’m out the door” and we’re off. Kelly’s not feeling great, and Pete and I inadvertently pull away as we push and attack the first section. I seem to be one of the few who’ve recce’d this, and I’m glad I have, given how the morning’s gone. Knowing when to push and ease off, Pete and I arrive at Llandovery in good time, and I pop into the bakery for a fizzy drink, crisps, and a bread roll. Food in hand we begin the long road section and I’m lifted at the sight of Lucy and Jess. The amazement on Jess’s face that I’m moving, and eating, shows, and the look of belief and “you’ve got this”from Lucy nearly has me in tears.
Pete and I make good headway along the road, Pete sharing one of his mantras from the army – stay on the log – with me, which we repeat back to each other to stay honest. We hit Usk reservoir, half an hour up on the guide time, where a few spectators including Jess and Lucy have parked up to cheer runners on. The next section to Fan Brycheiniog is hard. The heat has really kicked in, my breathing is heavy, and my pace has slowed right down. We manage to stay up on the guide time and descend to what I think is the support point. I’ve run out of water at this point and visibly slump on realising there’s another climb and descent before the support point. Pete gives me a pat on the back and we carry on, meeting Jess and Lucy on the climb which helps lift my spirits. I realise at this point they’re on a mission to see me as much as they can today to help push me through.
Usk Reservoir – working hard with Pete to get the early work done.
We take our time at the support point to make sure we cool down. I also ask for a medic to look at the big toe on my right foot. The toenail is hurting a lot and he makes an incision just below the base of the nail which releases some blood and pressure – I cannot put into words how good this felt – before taping it up. Pete’s ankle isn’t in great shape, and I lend him my spare poles which helps to get him moving with purpose.
The next section to the final cut-off at Storey Arms has some tough climbs and tougher descents and I’m going through a bad patch. Kelly catches up, clearly having rallied well from the morning, and brings with her energy to help keep us going. Cresting Fan Fawr, I jealously watch Pete and Kelly bum-slide down, but my attempt to do the same only serves to cut up my legs and divert sheep poo into unwanted areas, so I resign myself to battering my quads further.
On the descent, we meet a few runners who are unsure of what the new cut-off time is, given the two 30-minute graces, and seem doubtful that we are indeed half an hour up. Despite feeling confident that we’re safe, we push on to the water point to give ourselves more time for a bite and fill up. Dave is waiting at Storey Arms to offer a quick chat and words of encouragement again.
From there we work our way up to Pen Y Fan, generally cheerful in spirits after some coke and Welshcake. The sun is winding its way down and leaving the sky a lovely colour. I’m dreading this next section, there are still some tough descents and climbs plus a long run across the plateau before a steep final descent into the wood. My mood hits a real low on the plateau as night falls and we flick on our torches. There’s no wind in the air and immediately swarms of insects descend on us.
I give Jess a ring just to vent my frustration and see if she can turn my mood around. Finally, we clear the woods to the welcome sight of Lucy and Jess. I give them both a hug and big thanks, acknowledging the effort they’ve put in today to help me get round. As we cross the finish line into camp, Pete lets out a roar in celebration. There’s a realisation that the hard work has been done and, figuratively speaking at least, it’s a downhill procession to Cardiff from here.
Day Six | To Cardiff Castle, 63km (39 miles) | 1300m (4,265ft)
I wake up having possibly had my best night’s sleep all week, albeit still only managing three hours. It had gone well past midnight by the time I’d finished kneading out my calf, which had started complaining towards the end of the day, but being the legend he is, my bunkmate Greg had already laid out my sleeping mat and bag knowing I’d be in late.
I go through the usual ritual of readying my race kit, stuffing food into my day bag, and taping my feet. Since the burnt mouth sensation on day four, I’d grown sick of most of the food I’d packed for the race, with Veloforte chews and mini jammie dodgers the only remaining items that still appealed to me. Thankfully the map showed a few potential shops en route today.
Standing up was near agony which didn’t fill me with encouragement. Most days my feet would start sore, but by the time I’d walked over to the canteen tent, the pain would dissipate enough to make the day ahead seem possible. However, the cumulative damage, which had started building from the backend of day four, had taken its toll, and I hobbled around the camp like the Tinman in The Wizard of Oz.
I’d agreed to meet Pete and Kelly at the start, and we gingerly set off together along the stretch of road out of camp. Jess and Lucy were around the corner to wave us off, and Jess trotted alongside for a few hundred metres dispensing words of enthusiasm and encouragement.
We trudged up the first climb slowly, relying on the kind cut-offs for the day, and with no inclination to run until we reached the top. The views were picturesque, and we were presented with a kind grassy descent to the bike path towards Merthyr Tydfil. We stopped here for a McDonald’s breakfast (three hash browns, one crumpet, a smoothie, and a fruit shoot) and to allow Pete the chance to tend to his feet and ankle. Renewed from the pit stop, we pushed on in the heat to the day’s support point. We took fifteen minutes here to cool down and I decided to take advantage of a quick toilet stop (made quicker by the fact the baking sun had turned the Portaloo into a sauna).
Another refreshment stop in the small town of Nelson (two ice pops, a large pack of giant Skittles, and some crisps) and we were on to the final third of the day. As we crested the climb out of Nelson, Kelly decided she was going to try and push on, looking strong as she made up ground on those in front. I was quite happy hiking the rolling hills as I chatted with Pete. It was obvious he was struggling with his ankle and a little while later, after voicing his desire for me to push on ahead a second time, I decided to heed his advice. The sugar and codeine had kicked in, and the pain in my feet dulled, and so, knowing I would only have two or three hours of this pain-free “bliss”, I kicked the legs into gear.
Making good headway over the next section, I reached the water point and was delighted to see my friend Matt appear out of nowhere. A quick chat over some crips and coke followed by a hug and “see you in Cardiff” and I was back running with renewed vigour. It was now just a matter of ten miles along the river path to the castle.
Despite the pain beginning to return, I made sure to savour and take in these remaining miles. I was very conscious that I could find myself with a niggle or injury post-race, and consequently, these could be the last miles I run for some time. Plus, it was the end of an adventure. One that had started four years ago, with the age-old question “I wonder if I could…”finally building to a crescendo with these final few miles.
Admittedly, these did drag on, and the surrounding park encasing the last few miles towards the castle, though lovely and green, was filled with adolescents smoking and shouting, which made for an odd atmosphere. The effect of the codeine had faded, and my agonising feet had forced me into a walk/run (or fartlek as I liked to think of it) for the last couple of miles. Pulling my phone out, I spied some heartfelt messages of congratulations from friends. Holding back tears, I stowed my poles away for the final time, stuffed my mouth full of Skittles, and broke into one last run.
The finish as you turn into the castle walls has to be one of the best there is. The noise of cheers and the emotion that hits me as cross the finish line is a memory that will last me a lifetime. I sink my head into my hands in disbelief and nearly topple backward on tired legs. Straightening up, I spy Jess, Lucy, Matt, and Dave ahead and jog over to them for hugs and to thank them each in turn.
Dave kindly fetches me some chips and a drink, whilst the others kindly fawn over carrying my various bags and kit over to a spot to sit down. There are further congratulatory hugs and well wishes as I spy fellow finishers I’ve gotten to know over the week. Jess’s brother and his girlfriend have also made the trip across from Bristol to see me though much to their dismay they’d missed me crossing the line. Evidently, the drugs had given me a greater tailwind than anticipated.
Not long after, Jess announces Pete is about to arrive and so we all make our way over to welcome him in. I muster one last jog to cheer him to the line, the emotion evident on his face. Kelly is there too and the three of us embrace one last time.
Kelly and Pete. Two people I count myself lucky to have met.
Finally, it’s time for trophies and “baby dragons”. It all feels surreal shaking Shane’s hand and receiving my baby dragon. Despite what I said to Jess on day five, about not caring about this little figure anymore, it is nice to have this token to take away and look at with fondness and a smile, because it is the embodiment of a dream fulfilled.
Final thoughts
The Dragonsback Race is a brilliant race and a wonderful adventure. I would wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone but also caution that it should not be taken lightly. This may sound obvious, but year-on-year people fall foul of underestimating it. Regardless of whether you’re front or back of the pack, it requires you to invest a lot in every sense: time, effort, and money. It has required sacrifice from myself (well duh), but more notably in my mind from Jess. It’s that support system through training, and in her case during race week, that gives you a chance at pushing through.
I would love to see other North Leeds Fell Runners take on this race. I know there are plenty capable and would be happy to answer any questions if you find yourself asking that same “I wonder if I could…” that I did.
You don’t have to recce the course to be successful or finish, though I think you should, but you do have to get in the hours and elevation. The course is brilliant, and discovering new parts of Wales and growing familiar with it has been so fulfilling. It’s not just the brilliance of the course, the volunteers, or the setup that makes the race so rewarding, but the journey you invest in to get you there.
2x running shoes (La Sportiva Akasha 2 & Nike Vapourfly Trail 3 – first pair for the more technical terrain and the latter for when my feet needed comfort)
Sleeping mat (Alpkit Airo 120)
Sleeping bag (Alpkit Pipedream 400)
Portable charger
Massage stick and massage ball
First aid kit
Emergency survival bag
Nutrition
Sugar waffles
Trek protein bars
Supernatural fuel
Veloforte soft chews
KMC gel
Tailwind powder (coca cola flavour – would recommend)
Mini jammy dodgers
Supplements (multivitamin, Calcium magnesium zinc, and vit D, glucosamine and turmeric, omega, and beetroot)
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