Tag: Lakes

Hawkshead Show fell race

27 August 2024 / rose

Tuesday 20 August, 5 miles (ish), 801 feet (exactly)

Every summer, three Ward generations (myself, my Dad and my son) retreat to the Lake District and spend a few days together in Dad’s motorhome. This year we also convinced my brother to extract himself from the comfort of his home in Brighton to join us, with promises of refreshing dips in Blea Tarn under cloudless skies and jaw dropping views of the Milky Way at night. As we met up at the Great Langdale campsite on our first day it became apparent that rain-laden clouds would put an end to any of these plans. We squelched our way to the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel to make plans for our stay.

I always have a quick look on the Fellrunner website before a trip like this to see if anything is going on and found that the Hawkshead Show was on the following day and it had a fell race. Quick glance at the details: 5 miles or so, should be over and done with fairly quickly. I suggested this as an activity and there was agreement all round. I could get a run in and the rest of the gang could see me off, have a stroll around looking at the livestock and huge vegetables, then return and cheer me over the finish line.

As we approached the showground, it became clear that the rain from the previous day and night had turned the showground and the main car park into a quagmire. We had to turn around with all the other traffic and go to the alternative parking field in the village. Some conflicting information about the race start time meant I wasn’t sure whether I was actually going to be able to run or not, but it turned out I was just in time to register. After a quick change in a puddle behind one of the tents, I made my way to the start line.

Now the weather had been OK up until this point, but as the runners were gathering for the pre-race brief the heavens opened. This downpour was enough for a lot of the spectators (including my entourage) to decide to give the race start a miss and head for the main tent to see some prize-winning onions.

Final headcount, then we were off.

The course was composed of an initial trudge up the local lump that is Latterbarrow, then back down the other side towards the shores of Windermere before coming round in a big loop back to Hawkshead. There were a few fields to cross, nice bits of woodland trails and some wide tracks, so a bit of everything. There were also plenty of rock slabs and exposed tree roots slick with liquid mud to keep you concentrating.

Although I have only run in a couple, I do like show races. The show only seems to amplify those endearing elements of the fell race that we all love, the low-key-ness and local, small-scale feel. At the first show race I did (Ingleton Gala), the woman selling the tickets asked where we had come from. When I told her “Leeds” she was shocked. “Ooooh that’s a long way!” she exclaimed, and here was me thinking that Ingleton was fairly local! Similarly at Hawkshead, when registering, I overheard one of the race organisers saying what a great turnout it was this year (43 ran, although to be fair to them it looks like only 26 ran last year). Also, I think you get more first timers/people that don’t usually run on the fells getting involved. Lots of U/As on the results list suggested that this may be the case, and chatting to the guy that finished after me it turns out he is a mountain biker and this was his first fell race.

So race over, we went looking for something to eat and drink. This turned out to be a bit tricky for my (vegan) brother. The only place we could find was the chip van which had a huge seemingly static queue (possibly all vegans too).

Me: “I’m surprised they don’t have more vegan food at this.”

My brother: “Michael, agricultural shows like this are the antithesis of veganism.”

Me: “Oh, I suppose they are.”

So that was our cue to leave. My brother never did find a vegan lunch that day. He had to settle for a cheese and onion pasty from Coniston Co-Op.

Michael Ward

Helvellyn, The Dodds and me

27 May 2024 / rose

Inspired by nostalgic memories of the NLFR Bob Graham weekend (3^rd day, June 19^th 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 7^{th .}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.

Niamh Jackson

A day out around the Horseshoe

13 May 2024 / DaveM

Fairfield Horseshoe fell race, 11 May 2024 (AM, 14.5km, 914m ascent)

“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….

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 147^th 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 2^nd 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

Dave Middlemas

Fell relays

7 November 2018 / rose

I’ve had a pretty good year so far. I planned to train for, and then run a proper Lakes AL. From January to June I put the hours and miles in, culminating with the Ennerdale fell race at the start of June. My little training chart — compiled by a mystical computer algorithm — had a lovely upward trending squiggle. And I do love a bit of data-based reassurance. I was running well and completed my goal (albeit with a performance slightly dampened by a cold) so I promptly took a few weeks off.

My little squiggle took a downward turn, but with my desires sated, that wasn’t a concern. Training and rest must be balanced carefully if you want the scales of performance to tip in your favour, after all. But then Kentmere Horseshoe appeared on the horizon. It had been my first Lakes race the previous year and I was keen to see if I’d actually improved since then. It’s a cracking race; long and steep enough to put you to work, but not so serious as to scare you off.

A work stint in Carlisle gave me the perfect base for a bit of fitness rebuilding. I managed to make some quick hits on Scafell, Skiddaw, the Buttermere Sailbeck, and Striding Edge, to name a few, and my squiggle ascended accordingly. I was primed for Kentmere. The race brought some testing conditions, which resulted in countless route variations (or detours, depending on who you ask) but it was a fantastic day nonetheless. Placing further up the field than before, I was happy with my improvements and started to plan out the rest of the summer’s races.

I returned to my local training ground — the Otley Chevin — with great fervour, stomping up the track with great intention. Cresting the top of the climb with a newfound momentum, and pulling round the corner, my foot somehow didn’t quite land underneath me and with an horrific crunch I stumbled to the floor in a pile of curses and pain. The summer’s racing plan almost visibly evaporated before me.

A dog walker enquired if I needed assistance but I declined, either from denial or embarrassment, I’m still not sure which. I hobbled back down the track to the car. Surely it can’t be so bad if I can walk on it?
Once again the squiggle tumbles, this time for two months. Eight weeks of holidays, stag dos and weddings later, I’ve ridden that downward squiggle like a party rollercoaster. Kilograms gained, fitness lost. I might as well take up tiddlywinks.

And then up pops a little message from Dom.
“Can you run in the Fell Relays?”

Which brings me to the bit I actually meant to write about: The British Fell Relay Championships. They are organised by Ambleside AC and held in Grasmere, and NLFR fielded four teams, no mean feat for a small club. Shrouded in darkness, we piled onto the bus on a dreary Saturday morning. I was to be running the first leg, a hearty five mile romp with 2400ft of climb. I avoided looking at the route in advance, choosing to remain in blissful ignorance; I knew it was going to hurt and that was sufficient. Either good fortune or foresight had me on a fully flagged route, something I was definitely happy about upon our arrival at a very claggy Grasmere.

The marquee was absolutely buzzing with teams from all around the country getting down to their pre-race rituals. Reassuringly, everyone seemed to be juggling dibbers, numbers and maps, with expressions of less than total comprehension. This is the cottage sport of fell running not the Olympics, after all.

Soon enough the time rolls round to switch into race gear. I do the classic awkward shuffle into my shorts and vest, trying to use my hoody to shield my sliver of dignity. I head for a quick trot up the hill to get some blood back into my legs. They feel as rubbish as you’d expect after a few hours on a coach. It was a bit of a shock. Even walking the hill felt pretty hard going, and it’s only about 200m from the start. Not the greatest omen, but with the swirling fog and tense atmosphere, today wasn’t a day to let superstitious thoughts get the better of me. I trundled back down to the start with 20 minutes to go, launch prep commenced final ablutions, a quick scoosh of caffeine-charged energy gel, a swill of water, a kiss to my partner, and a saunter to the pen. The sight of a familiar face – Bill from Chorley – helped break the tension. We laughed at the ridiculousness of our nerves; it’s only a run up a hill anyway. I make the slight error of not jostling my way to the front, but before I had time to adjust position, we were off!

Races always set off fast, and so should you [really? —ed]. I don’t. Well, not fast enough anyway. The first steep climb was as unpleasant as expected but it turned into a speedy bit of track soon enough and the pace shot off. It felt great to be smashing along the winding path as it slowly gained in incline. Steady and fast for just over a mile, and I felt a touch regretful for not pushing harder for position at the start, now locked into the locomotion of runners snaking their way up the path, pace dictated by your allotment in line. This is what cross-country must feel like. The path steepened again, my heart was pounding and lungs pumping, but a cursory glance at my watch told me there was less than a mile to go. A mile to the top of the climb that is, the only marker that matters for a gravity-burdened plodder like myself.

Checkpoint one at Grisedale Hause passed, dibber sweatily fumbled into the reader, and steeply up to Sandal Seat we went. Now we were less than half a mile from the summit, but the angle and terrain were unquestionably fell rather than cross country now, my hands pumping down on my thighs (if I’ve got to lug these bloody arms up with me I might as well use them), sweat pouring from my face even in the cold, claggy air. The summit was crested with another clumsy thrust of my dibber into its target, and the sweet relief of a downward trajectory began.

The grass was slick in the wet, and the lack of pronounced tread on my shoes promptly makd this clear, traction being variable at best. Either way, I’m definitely a downer rather than an upper, so I threw myself into the descent with the regular reckless abandon. Arms wind-milling, I kicked my legs into long strides, as if I was trying to launch a football the full length of a pitch. I interspersed the long leaps with the occasional tap left or right, trying to keep the unwieldy vessel on its winding course. Questionable as the technique appears to be, I kept passing runners, so I continued, my body shaking and praying that my legs weren’t about to crumble. Even a minuscule miscalculation would send me Klinsmanning down the fell. That was brought clearly into focus when I passed a downed runner, head bandaged, surrounded by co-competitors who had come to his aid.

We rambled through the final checkpoint, and the surrounding runners and I all audibly groaned as we realised there was still some uphill left. Climbs — no matter how insignificant — always seem an order of magnitude worse when they’re near the end (a pertinent issue with The Tour of Pendle approaching). But with some heart-pounding stomps, we were up and over and on our way back along the fast track. The final steep descent, the same one that caused such concern at the start — continued to deliver, as I completely lost all grip, engaging in a full bum slide manoeuvre. Definitely not the Olympics. Still, back on my feet, and a final romp back through the starting field. Arms flailing as I dived into the pen, passing the invisible baton to my 2nd leg team-mates.

In my anoxic state, I clambered through the barrier, completely disorientated, and totally oblivious to the finishing pen and mandatory kit check to my left. It seems reasonable proof that I was trying hard at least, or that I’m an idiot, both plausible options. Redirected by the marshal, like a bouncer gently guiding an intoxicated patron, I emptied the contents of my race vest and thus validated my stint, with all the correct accessories, and we were done.

Back in warm and dry clothes, gleefully tucking into a polystyrene box full of chicken, rice and peas, I was very cheery man.

Over the day, the runners from the remaining legs returned, some jubilant, others glad to be passing the baton, sharing stories of the day’s trials and tribulations. A fantastic achievement by all, on a course with no easy legs, and conditions to match.

—Andrew Sandercock

Kentmere Horseshoe

30 August 2018 / rose

A Soggy Story

9.8km / 12.3m
1006m / 3300ft

Apparently we have experienced the best summer since 1976, which is quite nice for the Brits. I have spent about 60% of this summer in Vienna, which has had pretty much the same heat, but the locals are used to it. Either way, I have not seen rain like this for quite some time. Skiddaw was dry as a bone only four weeks ago. At 7am on Sunday in Leeds it’s biblically wet. My first thought—though actually I say it out loud— is “I can’t be doing a fell race in this!”

I set off to Kentmere accompanied by some podcast friends Adam Buxton and Richard Herring (I’ve been on a bit of a marathon with these podcasts recently) so the drive goes by in no time and I’m soon pulling into the start field. I hope they have a tractor on stand-by, it’s still raining.

“I can’t be doing a fell race in this” I said out loud again.

Still, I’m here now, and I’m excited. I see a few familiar faces, Andrew from NLFR and a small group of Hyde Park women.

The time last year it was a heatwave, I was doing a poo 2 minutes before the start and had forgotten to change into my fell shoes. I was determined not to run 12 miles in trainers this year, or be caught short. Just before the start I knelt down to tighten my laces to see hundreds of pairs of suitable shoes manufactured by the same brand: it clearly has a stranglehold in the UK more than in Europe.

If you think this race report is unceremonious it’s nothing compared to the start of this race. I always like to giggle about fell race starts. No major announcements, no inspirational talk. Just a bloke with a whistle. Actually I don’t think he even had a whistle. Although on this occasion I can’t blame them for getting it over with quickly, it’s pissing it down. A quick “get back to the line” [Eed: had they hired Dave Woodentops?] and we were off. The weather was so comprehensively British, and something a lot of us might have not experienced for what felt like six months.

A few kilometres in we are all snaking up the climb and one by one runners are peeling off their waterproof jackets: everyone would rather be wet than hot. (It’s 17ºC). My phone is recording my time on Strava and it’s in my Salomon battle vest 2000, unprotected, but I take a risk anyway, performing the tangled ritual of stuffing my waterproof into a back pocket whilst hiking up the hill.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so used to running in the heat, and I don’t think I have done a less than desirable weather run for around 5 months. I love this weather and I have a birthday-like grin on my face, “Fuck the Alps” becomes my mantra. You cannot beat the Lakes!

I catch up with fellow NLFR Andrew. We’ve been running about 40 minutes and at one point soon after the first checkpoint pretty much everyone around me comes to a sudden stop. It’s a traffic jam of runners looking at maps. This is caused by infectious doubt, as the trail seemed quite simple, but one person’s hesitation seems to be giving everyone second thoughts. This happened a few times. Just before the second checkpoint we are suddenly heading face first into a hailstorm. I felt like I was being stabbed in the face by ants and at one point the wind caused me to collide with another runner. It was the strongest wind I have ever experienced in my life, and I forgot my goggles so it was quite difficult on the descent.

Soon after the final checkpoint we get another issue with navigation. I’ll be honest here, I had no idea where I was and I couldn’t remember anything from last year. I see runners going off in different directions and make a quick judgment on who looks like they know what they are doing. So I followed three guys down a steep slope and I was followed in turn by a train of runners, so I guess this tactic is employed by many. At this time with all the hail and wind I just wanted to get down, so I figured even if it meant arriving in a different village and having to navigate back to Kentmere I’d be fine with that, we had passed the last checkpoint anyway right? Luckily we arrived at a stile I somehow remembered from the year before so I knew we’d only overshot the path a bit and hadn’t lost too much time. I use the stile to tighten up my laces as I had rolled my ankle at least six times. This takes time as the laces are quite tough to untie when you can’t feel your fingers. In this time the train of runners has not only caught up with me but has disappeared over the stile and into the fog. I’m alone.

This is one of the sections I remember the most from last year, a pretty fast and fun descent, and I’m glad I tied my laces up for it. One thing I have learned about fell running is that sometimes the least slippery part is the wettest part. So I’m pretty much descending puddles in a waterfall until I’m out of the cloudline and I can see the bottom. I can also see a pack of runners, some coming from a completely different direction, so I kick it up a gear. This time last year in the heat I was completely ruined, but this year I am fitter and the conditions are much better. There’s no chance of me getting dehydrated today.

I get overtaken by a chap who clearly thinks by his pace that he’s closer to the end than he really is. I tell him, “There’s still quite a way to go.” It’s a legitimate warning, but maybe also a bit of subconscious psychological warfare because I am a terrible human being. Then I get overtaken by a man in road shoes. No comment.

There is a fantastic end to a dramatic race. It’s nice to see so many runners still quite close together. The weather dictates the finish to be as unpretentious as the start. Soon I’m back in the car, changed and dry with Adam & Richard on my way back to Leeds. I beat last year’s time somehow by over 20 minutes, hopefully because I’m fitter and not because I accidentally cut half the course off or had the right shoes on. I guess next year’s time will help answer that question.

And if anyone isn’t familiar with the Courtyard Dairy on the A65 between Clapham and Giggleswick it’s definitely worth a visit. They get lots of runners through their doors and seemed less impressed by my day out than I expected. Maybe something to do with their recent influx of Lakeland 100 visitors?

–Adam Nodwell

Ennerdale

21 June 2018 / rose

I feel a week or so is a reasonable time to let the dust settle and try to get my thoughts down about Ennerdale. The good: I trained properly, or I did the training I had planned to do: 30 miles and 7500 ft ascent a week for a good few weeks before the race. I recce’d the whole thing as I’d planned. I got round the course. The weather was OK. A week before, I was probably in the best shape I could have hoped to be in. The less good (excuses?): I had a stag do the weekend before and promptly picked up a cold. I felt pretty shit the week running up to the race. I should have taken the extra 500ml water I was considering taking.

So, the actual race. Arrive at the start with plenty time for registration. Feel good and relaxed (if a little concerned about the cold). Race starts with a mile or so on flat track, I have a reasonable pace of 8 minute miles and I can feel this doesn’t feel as easy as it should. The steep climb to CP1 at Great Borne is similar: OK but not straightforward. But it’s the first big climb. “You’ll settle in,” I tell myself. “Stay comfortable” is the mantra repeating itself in my mind. Next on the list is Red Pike. The path rides up into the clag, and I’m very much hoping I’m not going to get lost or spend the day staring at a map and compass. But there are always people to follow and I do know the route (to an extent). Regardless, the terrain is very runnable until the loose rock nearer the summit, but again, despite my very comfortable pace, I feel a little bit strained. “Stay comfortable” becomes “stay comfortable and slow down a bit just in case”. Red Pike, High Stile and High Crag all go by reasonably well and I get to enjoy the rockier sections where I’m a bit faster generally.

Now to error number one. I’d planned to keep to the simplest navigational line to make life easier but I hadn’t realised that the route follows the fence ROUND Haystacks, rather than the path OVER Haystacks. F*ck it, keep it simple, the damage is done. At this point I’m about 7-8 miles in, and I feel bollocksed. The same way I felt at mile 17 on my recce. And from here on in, the day become long. I don’t really have any will for pace other than maintaining a trundle. There’s just no horsepower, I’m not running on fumes but I’m definitely in a speed restricted vehicle. Anyway, onto Blackbeck Tarn where you can refill your water bottles. I take one look at the rather stagnant tarn and decide against it. I’m not sure exactly, but I think I’m about 20 mins ahead of cutoff at this point and vaguely concerned about it. The waddle up to Green Gable begins. What should be runnable is trundled up. They have some cups of water at the CP which I am very grateful for. I’ve gained about 10-15 minutes on the cut-off time here which is a good morale booster. I’m feeling pretty broken. I’ve mostly been running on my own and the internal mental dialogue has been one of doom and gloom, my body echoing the sentiment. But a simple “you’re doing great” from the CP marshal genuinely gets me back on track. Great Gable in front of us looms grey and sinister, its vertical walls of rock disappearing into the clouds. I feel glad to be sneaking below it rather than over it. The loose rocky descent is hard on my body, I feel it in my core and my legs aren’t over the moon either. The lad in front running with poles seems less daft now he can descend with support. He spots a small stream and I follow, not enough flow to fill a bottle but worth a good few gulps. The refreshment feels good but Kirk Fell looms. Another slog, but at least I’m going as fast as everyone around me (i.e., slowly). At the Kirk Fell CP I’ve gained plenty time on the cut-off and I’m no longer worried about timing out. A small relief. The funny thing is that even if you’d want to quit (which a large part of me does), you’re still just as far from the start anyway. The descent from Kirk Fell takes a very loose gully that has taken an absolute pounding due to its featuring on the Bob Graham route. An alternative route is suggested but no one wants to route-find at this stage, so we precariously wind down the steep, loose gully. Again, I can feel myself going slower than hoped, the impact of descent more punishing than usual. If I was bollocksed before, I’m beyond it now. My legs hurt. They properly hurt: they are throbbing and aching but there’s too long left to go to bother thinking about it. On we go. There’s only one direction home anyway. But, a stroke of luck – a familiar face catches me up on the way up to Pillar – the last big climb of the route. Being able to chat rather than being stuck with your own thoughts makes a massive difference. Something I confess and we laugh about. Suffering together seems a lot more fun than suffering alone. The climb up to Pillar is long, and slow. I was quite happy that despite my slowness, I did manage to keep a consistent pace. Slow AND inefficient was something I didn’t have the capacity for.

Importantly though, once you’re over Pillar, you’re on a downward trend until the finish. Six or 7 miles of grinding it out. However, I miss a contour at Scoat Fell, falling behind my companions and the solo trudge home is set. From here, there isn’t much to mention. The terrain is straightforward, the navigation simple (you follow a wall for miles), a bit of a climb to Haycock, over to Caw Fell, dip down, then up to Iron Crag, and along to the final climb that is Crag Fell. What is straightforward by description is actually a tortuously long slog but there’s little satisfaction in writing or reading about it. Alas, the final climb: Crag Fell, which wouldn’t get a mention if it was anywhere else on the route, but at this point it definitely feels significant. A guy in his 60s catches me up and offers me the last of his water. He says he’s been watching me wilt over the last few miles and he’s not mistaken. It’s a token gesture as we’re over the worst of it, and about half a mile from a flowing stream. I’m not turning it down either way. He passes me and I manage to maintain a run on the windy path through the trees, and onto the track leading to the finish. I’m amused to see a group of friends have turned up to cheer me in, with a sign and everything. Finish line. Done. Definitely, definitely done.

I don’t much go for gushing tales of hardship or suffering, but I do feel that it’s hard to convey how unpleasant the race was. I got it done, that’s all that matters I guess. Numbers: Ennerdale, 23 miles, 7500ft ascent, Time: 6:45, 105/135. I was 15 minutes quicker than my recce (even though I spent an hour not moving on said recce), so I’m not overjoyed at my time, but I’m also very happy to have completed the race, despite not feeling 100%. It’s frustrating to train properly and then to fall off, just as race day arrives, but thems the breaks. Two days before the race at Ennerdale, I marshalled at the Kettlewell Anniversary Fell Race, a race which was my first ever fell race the year before. So while the result was a touch disappointing, going from a 5 mile, 1500ft race, to a 23 mile, 7500ft race, in a year, definitely seems like good progress.

Andrew Sandercock

Open 5 – Coniston

11 December 2017 / Ian

Great Sunday spent running and cycling around the Lake District. I’m not going to write too much, the photos are far more impressive than any words I could contribute. Some please enjoy the small selection of the spectacular photos taken by excellent event photographer James Kirby. Thanks also to James, Lisa and the Open Adventure team, along with Joe Faulkner plus helpers for the catering.

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