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